


Marsh Silas II: Bloody Platoon

by AmbroseVox



Series: Marsh Silas [2]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Brotherhood, Cadia, Cult, Cultists, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Growth, Heresy, Heretics, Hurt/Comfort, Kasrs, Love, Loyalty, Military-Adventure, Military-Drama, Military-Fiction, Military-Journey, Morality, Mystery, Original Characters - Freeform, Romance, Sci-Fi, Self-Discovery, Warhammer: 40000, faith - Freeform, science-fiction, unity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 82,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29462448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbroseVox/pseuds/AmbroseVox
Summary: Still fresh from their victory at Kasr Fortis, the 1333rd Cadian Regiment now finds itself dealing not with reduced but increased heretical activity. Frequent ambushes do not appear to interest Cadian High Command despite fears among the ranks of another Chaos incursion. Marsh Silas, Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, and the rest of Bloody Platoon must root out the heretics, train their new recruits, and prepare for many battles to come.
Series: Marsh Silas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190867
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! Marsh Silas: II is the second part in the 'Marsh Silas,' series. If you haven't read the first story, Marsh Silas I: An Inquisitor, you'll be missing some crucial details and I strong recommend you read that one first. If you have, press on with Bloody Platoon! This story is also available on Fanfiction.net and chapters will be posted to that site and this one concurrently.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part I: 1st Platoon, 1st Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! Marsh Silas: II is the second part in the 'Marsh Silas,' series. If you haven't read the first story, Marsh Silas I: An Inquisitor, you'll be missing some crucial details and I strongly recommend you read that one first. If you have, press on with Bloody Platoon! This story is also available on Fanfiction.net and chapters will be post to that site and this one concurrently.

“Marsh Silaaaaas!”

“Who’s that belting?”

“Tis I, Drummer Boy!”

“What do you be wanting, Drummer Boy?”

“Permission to relieve myself!”

Marsh Silas, striding on the left flank of Bloody Platoon as they marched down the road, snorted and shook his head. He glanced into the column of marching Shock Troopers who were already beginning to snicker at the leading Voxman. Grinning to himself, he picked up the pace so he was adjacent to the head of the column consisting of the Platoon Command Squad. Lieutenant Hyram was in the center with Sergeant Babcock, the color sergeant, and the lead medic, Honeycutt, on his right, with their Voxman, Drummer Boy, and Junior Commissar Carstensen on his left. 

He leveled his gaze with his younger friend. 

“Now, what makes ya think this ol’ platoon sergeant can convince the platoon leader to halt the entire column just so you can drain yer _other_ lasgun?”

“Methinks the platoon leader would not appreciate one o’ his men with wet trousers standing at attention when Colonel Isaev reviews the regiment, Marsh Silas.”

Marsh stole a glance at Hyram. Although he could only see the left side of his face, he saw the Lieutenant was smiling and doing his best not to laugh. Carstensen, on the other hand, was glaring at him, clearly unhappy with the casual, kidding nature of the conversation. 

“What’s say you, sir?” Marsh asked the platoon leader. “He makes a fair point. Just what would a superior officer make of a Cadian Guardsman with soiled trousers? I surely think the blame’ll fall on his commanding officer and not himself for such a shameful sight.”

Hyram pretended to think for a moment and then looked at his wrist watch. 

“We’re far ahead of schedule. I think we’ve enough time to rest our feet, fill our bellies, and allow the good Corporal to alleviate his woes.” He raised his fist into the air. “Platoon, halt!”

Bloody Platoon came to a stop on a deserted stretch of road a few kilometers south of the winding coastal route. On the right side of the road there was a steep embankment which led up to a small rise. To their left, the embankment gently sloped downward into a flat plain dusted with white snow and the occasional yellow winter shrub. Only a few gnarled, twisted, barren tree trunks were at the top of the right hand embankment.

Hyram spun around on his heel. “Corporal Bullard, Corporal Derryhouse, get yourselves to the top of the rise to keep watch. Sergeant Walmsley, set up a blocking position a few meters ahead, Albert, Brownlow, do the same to our rear. Use the trees for cover. Bloody Platoon, fall out. Drummer Boy, get a move on before you make a mess.”

Breaking formation, the Guardsmen began to chat jovially among themselves. Drummer Boy darted over to one of the trees, unzipped his trousers, and sighed in satisfaction. The others slid down the embankment and began grouping up. Most took out their mess kits and began to open up rations. Hyram went down with the men and began going from each little group, sharing a few words with them and providing some encouragement for the march ahead. Honeycutt and the field chirurgeons began going around, taking off the boots of Guardsmen who were complaining about sores or blisters on their feet. Soothing ointment was provided to sores while knives were drawn to begin the grisly business of lancing the blisters.

Instead of joining them, Marsh Silas remained on the embankment and leaned against a tree. After adjusting the straps of his M36 on his right shoulder and the Mk. 22c combat shotgun on his left, he took out his ebony pipe. Turning it around, he ran his thumb over the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. From a small leather pouch, he pinched out some dried tabac leaves and placed them in the bowl. Tucking the pouch away, he then struck a match against his opposite pauldron, dipped it into the bowl, and puffed on the end. Soon enough, thin, aromatic gray smoke rose from the bowl and filled his lungs. Inhaling deeply, he waved the match out and flicked it away. 

His violet eyes twinkled as they fell on Bloody Platoon. Most of the men’s faces were filthy from days of practice maneuvers in the field and stubble was beginning to coat their cheeks. Brown mud stains covered their pant legs and smears of snow from the few blizzards they experienced on the long marches clung to their heavy winter coats. Each rucksack was a size bigger than usual and everyone was tired. But they were smiling, joking, laughing, swapping war stories, and passing off bogus advice to one another about field craft, women, and drinking to one another. It was such a wonderful sight that Marsh could not help but smile warmly at them. 

Eventually, his eyes drifted down to his boots. However beautiful it was, it always became bittersweet. One of their number was still missing. Sometimes, Marsh Silas felt as though any day his old friend would just stroll back into camp or they would traverse a bend in the road and find him walking the other way. Such imaginings were as heartbreaking as they were delightful. He relished in just what words they would exchange if the Emperor granted those wishes. ‘By the Throne, man, wherever have you been!?’ ‘I’ve been out looking for you, you’re a hard man to find!’ ‘And you harder, for I’ve been searching for you as well!’ ‘What fools we are!’ Just musing on it made him chuckle a little. He looked up the road, then back down the way they came, and then over either shoulder, just to check. As often as he disappeared, Marsh remembered how he was always able to turn around to find him already present. Sometimes it was jarring, sometimes it was annoying. However he used to feel, now he turned, turned, and turned, hopeful and expectant. After so long, it seemed foolish to still grow disappointed when he found the space around him empty.

Marsh fingers slid up his pipe, curled his forefinger and middle finger around it, and lifted his third and little fingers. Drawing the pipe away, he exhaled and a thick cloud of smoke and his warm breath rose into the air. The Emperor blessed them, for it was a cold day but there was no wind. For once, the sky was cloudless too and the sun made it almost too hot to wear an overcoat. One might have welcomed that in a sector of Cadia which saw short summers and long winters, especially on a windswept cape where there was always wind. Others might have complained about the sea breezes but he found himself enjoying them. It came from those days, at sunsets and sunrises, not patrolling but merely walking with his friend, through yellow flower fields and along sandy beaches. It would be good to return to the base and its wonderful salty breeze.

“You’re due for a shave when we return to base,” Carstensen said. Marsh jumped a little, not having noticed her standing beside him. She didn’t quite smile but it was not a frown either. Although the sun was high and warm, the rays were broken up by the limbs of the tree they were under, casting intermittent shadows across her pale face. Her blue-green eyes, appearing like the ocean’s tide on a cold morning, glittered radiantly. 

“And a wash for us all,” Marsh replied. After taking another puff on it, he handed it to Carstensen. She took it up in her gloved hand, pressed the end to her lips, and took a long drag. A moment passed and she exhaled. Nodding, she handed it back to him. “Do Commissars not receive a supply of lho-sticks, ma’am?”

In the time since Carstensen first arrived, Marsh Silas was still somewhat wary of her. Any Guardsman who used his head was wise enough not to disrespect or earn the ire of any Commissar, regardless of their rank or experience. But they had fought many battles and countless skirmishes together. He trusted her, and more so, felt comfortable enough to at least make light of small things when none of the Guardsmen were around.

“No need when one can share,” she said in an almost teasing fashion. “Is it the contents of that pipe that draw your mind away or is it something else?”

“A year gone by but Kasr Fortis lingers still,” Marsh replied after a sigh. “I miss him.”

“I do not know many who would fret over the absence of an Inquisitor,” Junior Commissar Carstensen said, folding her hands behind her crimson coat and standing closer to him. “I respected him, as all should respect an Inquisitor, but I did not know him as you did. He seemed different.”

“Different an’ more, ma’am,” Marsh said sadly, shaking his head. “But he was good and that’s what mattered ta me the most.”

“We should all be so blessed to have known such an individual who provided able service to the Emperor,” Carstensen said. Marsh caught her dignified gaze out the corner of his eyes as he continued to stare off into the open fields. 

“A servant o’ the Emperor and the whole Imperium,” Marsh said, then smiled at her. “But more an’ that, he was my good friend.” He held up the pipe again for her to take it, the neck pointed towards her. Instead, she reached out, gently took his hand in her’s, leaned forward, and puff on the pipe a few times. As she did, a few loose locks of range hair spilled out from underneath her high-peaked cap and swept across her brow. Marsh found himself looking longer than he intended and did not realize she was gazing back until she cocked her head to the side.

Clearing his throat, he turned his attention forward and hastily puffed on his pipe. “All I got is this here pistol,” he tapped the holster strung across his chestplate. It was a new, larger, brown leather holster containing his Ripper Pistol. “And this shotgun to remind me o’ him. Well, seeing how this scattergun was handed down to him and now it’s been passed onto me.”

Carstensen eyed the weapon and removed it from the platoon sergeant’s shoulder. She examined it briefly, turning it over in her hands. Raising it, she peered down the sights and then inspected the revolving cylinder. Making a small grunt of approval, she put the strap back around Marsh’s shoulder. 

“What strange inventions come from the rest of the Imperium,” she remarked. “If we should ever come across such a regiment it would be a mark of good faith to return the weapon.”

Marsh nodded in agreement. He assumed the conversation would end there but the Junior Commissar continued to stand beside him. Her stance was rigid, almost as if she was standing at attention. It was her natural posture, he decided. Despite her severe disposition, he was happy for the company nonetheless. Without speaking, he held the pipe over to her again. Again, she leaned forward and puffed on the neck without plucking it from his grasp. 

Eventually, Lieutenant Hyram joined them. He brought two tin mugs of recaf, holding one in either hand. His expression was amiable, accentuated by his longer, thicker sideburns which nearly came down to his jaw. Like Marsh Silas, stubble was growing on his cheeks from so many days spent in the field practicing maneuvers. Marsh and Carstensen both took a mug, blew on the steaming contents, and took delicate sips. In turn, the platoon sergeant gave his commanding officer his pipe. Hyram took a few puffs, coughed a little bit, and then continued to smoke. Amicable, he raised the pipe and smiled wide. All Marsh did was wink in return. 

Looking past the junior officer, Marsh watched Bloody Platoon again. Drummer Boy finally joined one of the small clots of men and was now indulging in his rations. Some men finished eating and used their heavy rucksacks as pillows. Others decided not to catch a few moments of sleep and broke out packs of cards. While they played a few hands of Black Five other troopers were going over their armaments. Charge packs were cycled, autopistol magazines checked, barrels cleaned, and knives sharpened on whetstones. Everyone was smoking lho-sticks and chatting quietly. 

Despite his pleasant company, Marsh considered going among the men and gauging their condition. He trusted Hyram to do the same but it was still one of his primary duties as the platoon sergeant. Dumping the contents of his pipe and banging the lingering ashes out against his heavy kneepad. Before he even took his first step, he heard a set of heavy booted feet jogging towards him. Turning, he saw Derryhouse coming across the pavement. Behind him, Bullard was sliding down the embankment of the hill. The sniper hit the bottom on his feet and deftly sprang forward into a sprint. 

“Heretics!” Derryhouse said, pointing back at the hill’s crest. “Over a hundred o’em!”

“Damn, we ain’t in the best spot,” Marsh said to Hyam.

“No, we can implement a reverse slope defense along this line,” Hyam said, motioning with the side of his hand. “Staff Sergeant, stagger the men along this embankment. Fix bayonets.”

“Got it, sir!” Marsh turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “On yer feet, Shock Troopers and quickly now! We got heretics that need killing! Fix bayonets and stand to!”

Bloody Platoon jumped onto its feet and the men quickly attached their bayonets. Marsh ran through the number, directing the squad leaders who in turn ordered their men into position. Everyone threw themselves onto the snowy embankment, crawled up to the crest, and fixed their sights on the opposite gradient. Guardsmen detached fragmentation grenades from their webbing and laid them out beside them. Others took out their combat knives and drove them into the soil beside them. Hyram went to each Heavy Weapons team and personally managed their positioning. Both Heavy Bolter teams remained on either end of their line while the Autocannon team erected their weapon behind a tree on the left flank. On the right flank, the Lascannon team took up a similar position. In the center was the Missile Launcher team who elevated their weapon on a tripod. The mortar team remained at the bottom of the embankment, hastily digging a fighting hole into the ground for cover. When they finished, they set up the tripod of their weapon, adjusted the range and trajectory, and opened a box of shells. 

As the platoon dug in, Marsh Silas paced up and down the line. “Mark your targets before your fire. Keep your M36’s set to semi-automatic fire, do not burn through your charge packs. Grenadiers, fragmentation rounds if you’d please. Five to eight round bursts on the Heavy Bolters. Spare charge packs and grenades where you can reach’em.”

Walking in the opposite direction was Junior Commissar Carstensen. 

“You are Imperial Guardsmen. Do not give mere thanks to the Emperor for blessing you with life in his realm. Repay him not just with faith alone but by _smiting_ the enemy that foolishly fights against Him! Prove they are no match for the Emperor’s Cadians!”

Bloody Platoon bellowed a great cheer. Marsh joined in, raising his fist into the air. When he and Carstensen passed each other, shoulder to shoulder, he nodded at her. In turn, she tapped him on the shoulder. The platoon sergeant found Hyram on the firing line with Drummer Boy on his right and Babcock on his left. 

“...First Platoon holding ground and preparing to engage. Out,” the Voxman said into the handset before taking up his arms. 

“The moment they traverse the crest of the rise we’ll open fire with everything we have. The sun will be in their face and our position will minimize their time to attack,” Hyram said, jotting something down in his logbook. He tucked into a pouch, turned onto his side, reached over, and jostled Babcock by his arm. “You may want to plant the flag and take cover, Sergeant.”

“Oh no, sir, I’m fine standing,” Babcock insisted. He drew his laspistol but continued to clutch the standard in his left hand. “We wouldn’t want the wind to catch the ol’ flag and knock her over. That would be mighty shameful!”

“Indeed it would,” Hyram laughed. Marsh squeezed in between the color sergeant and the platoon leader. “Some other units are engaged so air support won’t arrive for about fifteen or twenty minutes, Staff Sergeant.”

Marsh checked his sights, ensured the bayonet was attached firmly to the lug, and ensured his charge pack was full. When he finished, he tapped the bottom of the magazine and then the side of the M36. 

“Well that’s a shame; we’ll be finished before they can drop any o’their payloads,” Marsh remarked. 

A few more orders were issued up and down the line. Then, all that could be heard was the steady breathing of the Guardsmen and the variou _clicks_ as they finished checking their lasguns. Marsh adjusted his sights again and swept his M36 across the top of the rise. The natural formation was shaped like a crescent moon, steadily growing steeper in the center but gradually declining at its edges. While steep, it was sloped enough that a man could clamber up or walk down without too much trouble. A few yellow scrub bushes and tufts of prairie grass dotted the rise’s face as well as a few black rocks. 

He looked up and down the line, seeing nothing but olive drab helmets, khaki pant legs, and brown or black boots. Everyone was still and focused. Carstensen was still moving behind them, holding her Bolt Pistol in her right hand and wearing her Power Fist on her left. Already, blue energy wreathed around the metallic knuckles and resonated on the back of her hand. Each of the leather straps were tight across the sleeve. Her trigger finger, just above the trigger guard of her weapon, tapped the side eagerly. 

She caught him looking her way. The sun was high behind their backs and the bill of Carstensen’s high-peaked cover cast a shadow over her eyes. Their gaze lingered for a time until she offered a smile, one so quick Marsh was unsure whether it actually was a smile. But he did the same and held it so she couldn’t miss it. It felt like the right thing to do between two fellow soldiers.

He looked forward. A figure, no more than mere silhouette, appeared at the top of the crest. They raised a jagged dagger into the air and unleashed a shrill war cry. Hyram immediately took aim and fired. The lasbolt struck the heretic right in the knee and severed his calf. Crying out, the heretic dropped their weapon and tumbled down the slope. Several other Guardsmen peppered the body with lasbolts until all that remained was a scorched trunk. It came to a rest at the bottom of the slope with a heavy _thunk_.

A line of figures appeared at the top of the rise. Autogun fire poured down on the Guardsmen. Dozens upon dozens of yellow muzzle flashes flared along the crest. Dark figures clad in rags and sack hoods charged down the slope. Golden, red, and blue lasbolts struck them, blasting off limps, severing heads, and opening flesh. They fell in scores, rolling down the decline and piling up at the bottom. Heavy Bolter tracers arched back and forth, cutting down entire lines of incoming heretics. Some were riddled by so many shells they fell into pieces. Blood splattered onto the fresh white snow. Messy, blackened tracks were left in the wakes of the attackers. Flanking forces appearing, running over the shorter, narrow flanks of the rise. Thinned by Heavy Bolter fire, they continued on. Many fell but soon they were reaching the paved road. Guardsmen began chucking fragmentation grenades. Each explosive erupted into a white cloud and shrapnel sprayed into the surrounding heretics. Autocannon shells ripped into larger crowds, slicing heretics into pieces. The velocity of the shells was so great they sometimes ripped through a man entirely and detonated in a white-gray cloud on the soil behind them. Grenadiers fired deliberately, the shells finding heretics moving together in tight packs. Scattered by the small blast and ripped up by shrapnel, these groups fell apart. White-blue plasma bolts struck heretics dead on and tore their torsos open, exposing and obliterating rib cages. 

More came down the slope. Marsh Silas reloaded and fired at the ones who managed to reach the paved road. They were armed with autoguns of poor construct; some of the weapons would fall apart in the heretics’ hands when they squeezed the trigger. On they came, wielding swords and daggers. Their screaming filled the air but was met by the deep, manly shouting of the Guardsmen. Heretics lined up on the crest to provide covering fire. But the mortarmen, Olhouser and Snyder, adjusted their weapon’s trajectory and slid large shells down the tube. A few moments later, a column of white snow and black earth would be flung skyward from the crest. Those who were caught in the radius were thrown in all directions. 

Suddenly, a few grenades exploded behind the firing line. Screaming soon followed. Marsh turned and saw the mortar pit was bracketed by grenade launcher shells. 

“Bullard, take out those enemy grenadiers!” Marsh shouted and then slid down the embankment. Olhouser was sitting on the rim of the pit with his helmet off. He was holding his ears and blood was leaking through his fingers. Both eyes were squeezed shut and he bared his clenched teeth. Synder was on his hands and knees. A bloody spot was forming on the left side of his lower back. The center was deeply red. 

He was trying to crawl out but Marsh dropped his M36 and put his weight on him. Drawing his trench knife, he cut away the heavy clothing and thermal layer. Examining the wound, he saw a piece of shrapnel lodged in his flesh. Reaching into his kit bag, he took out a spare glove and bunched it up. “Bite down on this!” He ordered, stuffing the glove into Synder’s mouth. The poor Guardsman accepted but he was still moaning in pain. Tears streamed down his cheeks. 

Still partly laying on him, Marsh probed the wound with the tip of his knife. Synder screamed as the metal touched the opened, bleeding flesh. His feet kicked and he dug his gloved fingers into Cadian soil. The shrapnel was so hot there was steam radiating from it. Marsh was able to slip the blade against the shrapnel, found the end, and applied pressure. Screaming so long and loud, the mortarman released the glove in his mouth. With a quick effort, Marsh extracted the shrapnel from the wound. In the same moment, the shrapnel touched his exposed fingertips. He cried out at the pain and dropped the knife. But he dug into his kit bag, yanked out the first aid pack, and took out a pressure dressing. He planted it on the wound and held it with both hands. “Medic!” Marsh hollered, long and loud.

Honeycutt appeared a few moments later and removed Marsh’s hand. 

“Get back on line,” the senior medic said, “I’ve got him!”

Field chirurgeons Walcott from Third Squad and Salvia from Second Squad were already providing aid to Olhouser. Collecting his trench knife, Marsh then leaped back into his position. He found the platoon was experiencing heavier fire than before. The heretics were no longer charging down the slope but were prone along the crest, firing down into the position. Two Heavy Stubbers, one on either flank, were rattling away. Albert and Brownlow were exchanging fire with one on the right flank. But heretics were trying to come around on Bloody Platoon’s left, utilizing the crescent-moon shaped rise for cover. To keep them from flanking their position, Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor were suppressing their movements with their Heavy Bolter.

Hyram grabbed Marsh by the collar of his flak armour. 

“They’re trying to gain fire superiority!” the Lieutenant shouted. “We need to knock out or keep their gun positions engaged.” Marsh could see that most of the men were occupied with suppressing enemy movement. Bullard was still engaging grenadiers, Foster and Ledford were eliminating new enemy gun positions with the Lascannon. The Missile Launcher was receiving too much fire, preventing Knaggs and Fletcher from firing. Sudworth and Lowe were displaced to the right flank with the Autocannon to suppress enemy movement there. 

Hyram pointed at the Heavy Stubber, removed from the main heretic firing line at the top of the crest. “Get down the line, advance from Walmsley’s position, and knock out the gun any way you can! We’ll give you as much cover fire as possible!”

Marsh turned to move but Hyram caught his shoulder and turned him back. His expression was grave. “It’s a hell of an order, Silas. You may not come back.”

The platoon sergeant met Hyram’s gaze for merely a moment. Then, he smiled and winked.

“Got it, sir!”

Sliding to the bottom of the embankment, he moved at a half-crouch until he reached the Walmsley brothers. Crawling up to the lip of the embankment, he spotted the enemy machine gun. He checked his charge pack, readjusted his bayonet on the lug, and took a breath. “Keep me covered,” he said to the gun team beside him. Both brothers nodded. Rolling over, Marsh looked back down the line and saw Hyram. He raised one thumb into the air. The platoon returned the gesture. 

“Covering fiiiiire!” he shouted. Bloody Platoon gave a cheer and poured heated lasgun and plasma fire on the enemy position. Marsh jumped to his feet, sprinted across the road as autogun slugs riddled the pavement around him, and dove onto the slope of the rise. Beneath the majority of their guns, he knew they couldn’t fire on him without unduly exposing themselves. After taking a moment to overcome the frenzy of his dash, he began crawling up the slope. He kept his M36 pointed forward, holding the grip in his right hand. 

Above him, the enemy Heavy Stubber team was still firing down on Bloody Platoon. Marsh didn’t take his eyes off it as he made his way upwards. He didn’t stop until he heard the garbled, unintelligible voices of heretics directly on the other side of the rise. Just as he brought his M36 to bear, four heretics came over the top. A burst of Heavy Bolter fire from the Walmsley’s weapon cut all four down. Two corpses fell backwards while two more tumbled over Marsh. 

There was no time to give a signal of thanks. He continued his crawling towards the enemy position. A figure appeared, holding an antiquated shoulder-held missile launcher. Before he fired, a large lasbolt from Bullard’s Long-Las hit him. The heretic disappeared from sight.

About ten meters or so below the Heavy Stubber, Marsh aimed his M36. The position he was in made it difficult to shoot them. Instead, he put down his lasgun, primed a grenade, cooked it for a few seconds, and then lobbed it at the enemy position. He ducked down and held his helmet with both hands, peeking just enough to see it. The grenade exploded in midair directly over the Heavy Stubber team. The barrel disappeared and the firing stopped.

Marsh grinned briefly. He made his way up to the crest and looked over. There were no more heretics attempting to use the left flank. Both gunners operating the Heavy Stubber were dead, their heads opened by shrapnel. But there were still enemies lining the crest and firing down at the platoon. Using the crest for cover, he occupied the enemy fighting position and primed another grenade. It detonated among the main line of heretical attackers and disrupted their rate of fire.

He began moving along the crest, half-crouched. On the opposite side, heretic sharpshooters discovered his movements and began firing at him. Bullets thudded into the soil and rocks around. Some hit right between his feet. One round even flew through his rucksack and another bounced off his shoulder pauldron. Each round came closer to finding its mark and Marsh couldn’t help but release loud, stressed grunts with each hit. Before long, the enemy fire abated as Hyram directed the Heavy Weapons Squads’ fire on the sharpshooters. Even the mortar fire resumed and shells began falling among the heretics. 

Finally, he hit the dirt adjacent to the enemy position. It offered a much better firing angle and he began picking off targets one by one. After he eliminated several, they turned their fire on him. Others stood up and began to charge his position. Marsh slung his M36 over his shoulder and drew the Mk. 22 shotgun. He attached a bayonet to the lug and rose to a crouch just as the heretics closed in on his position. He squeezed the trigger and unleashed four Inferno Shells. Half a dozen targets were quickly set ablaze. Another wave of attackers was dispatched and he ducked down to reload. Sliding in regular shells, he filled the eight-round cylinder and then got back up to fire again. A single attacker rushed him with their sword raised above their head. Before they could bring it down, Marsh lunged and drove the bayonet into the heretic’s stomach. 

Driving it deeper, Marsh stood up completely and kicked his assailant on their back. The act freed his bayonet and he proceeded to open the enemy’s throat with it. When he looked up, he saw the majority of heretics were retreating. Marsh transitioned back to his M36 and charged at them. When they saw a long Guardsmen among them, some of the enemies turned to fight him. 

Marsh shot one down, then another, and then bayoneted a third. A fourth came storming at him with nothing but a knife. Swing his M36 around, he slashed the heretic across the throat and then pierced his stomach. Then, he felt someone grab him from behind. Two arms wrapped around him and tried to bring him down. Using his superior weight, he wrenched the attacker forward onto the ground. Jumping on him, Marsh hit the hooded heretic in the face with his fist several times. Once they were stunned, the platoon sergeant drew his Ripper Pistol and fired a single shot into their head. Still kneeling, he raised the pistol and cut down a small group with the weapon’s automatic fire feature. 

Holstering it, he went to pick up his M36 but another heretic came at him. Stuck across the jaw, Marsh reeled briefly but was able to recover. Drawing his trench knife, he slammed the steel knuckle guard against the heretic’s jaw. It audibly cracked and his opponent staggered. Grabbing the traitor by their ragged collar, he drove the knife into their neck three times in rapid succession. Pushing them away, he sheathed his knife and took up his M36. When he turned, he found a heretic taking aim at him with an autogun. Just as he raised his M36, a red lasbolt struck the heretic. Hyram came bounding over the cresting wielding his laspistol and power sword, screaming like mad. Next came Carstensen and then the rest of Boody Platoon. Washing over the remaining attackers like an ocean wave, they cut down swathes of retreating heretics with concentrated laser fire. Following Hyram, they ran after them and bayoneted the stragglers. Bloody Platoon shouted and whooped for joy as the pursuit continued over one hundred, then two hundred meters. Many heretics were attempted to fleet across open ground. 

“Halt, halt, halt!” Hyram ordered. Bloody Platoon formed a line and began firing. Marsh regrouped with his commanding officer. Hyram yanked a colored smoke grenade from his webbing and pulled the pin. Thick, yellow smoke rose into the air as he grabbed the handset. “Avenger One, this is Bloody Platoon; we’ve marked our position with yellow smoke. Repeat, do not fire on the yellow smoke.”

“Roger, Bloody Platoon. Keep your heads down, we’re coming in.”

The heretics proceeded to escape across open ground. Soon, hundreds of meters separated the opposing forces. Then, Marsh Silas heard the droning sound of large engines. He looked to his left and saw a flight of five Marauder Bombers in a wedge formation. As they came closer, the sound of their engines grew louder. The noise was incredibly powerful and silenced almost every other sound on the battlefield. The olive drab, stocky bombers glinted in the sunlight. Barrels of the Heavy Bolters protrude from dorsal and rear turrets. Twin-linked Lascannons jutted out from the bow gunnery position. 

All the Guardsmen ceased their activity to watch the spectacle unfold. The bomb doors opened and hundreds of bombs tumbled from their bellies. Whistling filled the air as they fell. Massive brown columns of earth shot skyward and soon the heretics disappeared. So many bombs fell on the hilly territory the ground vibrated beneath Marsh’s feet. Smaller stones and pebbles shuffered where they saw. Despite being many hundreds of meters away from the bombing run, Marsh felt the shockwave through the air. Some of the looser straps of his webbing flapped backwards as if struck by a strong gust of wind. 

Hundreds of columns rose and fell, rose and fell, as if there was an earthen sea before them. When the Marauders finally banked from their attack run, the bombing ceased and Cadia grew very still. Marsh raised the magnoculars from the cord around his neck and examined the countryside. Ahead, all he could see were deep, black bomb craters. No bodies were visible. 

Lowering them, he grinned at the Lieutenant.

“Good effect on target, sir.”

Bloody Platoon gave a great cheer. Many sank to their knees to thank the Emperor not just for sparing their lives but for granting them victory once more. Marsh went around the men with the other NCOs, ensuring everyone who was present was not wounded and was in possession of all their wargear. Once the platoon was in good order, they began walking back down the slope to their original position. Taking a moment to stand on the crest, Marsh looked down. Hundreds of bodies littered the slope and many more were piled at the bottom. Dozens were scattered across the paved road. Most of the Heavy Weapons Squads were still in their positions. He could see Honeycutt still treating Olhouser, Synder, and a few of the Guardsmen who received light wounds during the engagement. 

While the platoon celebrated, Marsh lingered with Hyram and Carstensen. Neither of them were jubilant and neither was the platoon sergeant. Taking out his pipe but not lighting it, Marsh put to his lips and sighed. “What’s that make this one, sir? The tenth?”

“The twelfth,” Hyram corrected. He sheathed his power sword and holstered his sidearm. Gazing out at the fields, he took his helmet off and shook his head. “I don’t understand it. We cleared the sector around Army’s Meadow more than six months ago. The heretics have no place to hide yet their numbers grow.”

“Probing attacks on the camp, ambushes in the countryside, heretic patrols on the roads. It possesses all the signs of a build up.” Carstensen turned to Marsh Silas. “When we return to Army’s Meadow, we should reinforce the trenches. Ammo stashes, secondary barbed wire entanglements, mines, anything we can do to fortify our sector of defense.”

“Aye, and keep the men trained up,” Marsh offered, taking the pipe from his mouth. He turned it over in his hands several times and then spit. “Big country out there, sir. But if we can find them heretics, we can kill’em.”

“Indeed, Staff Sergeant,” Hyram said. “We’ll make a report to Colonel Isaev upon our return. Police your wargear, collect the wound; we’re moving out.”


	2. Chapter 2

There was Effelmen, First Squad’s reserved second in command, and Monty Peck, who was the best singer in the entire platoon. Monty Peck was a fellow with fairer skin compared to the others. His blonde locks tended to curl at the ends and when he was clean-shaven the man’s cheeks seemed to glow. But he seemed quite unaware of his handsome face. Efflemen was a metered individual, as keen to respect Cadian traditions as he was to indulge in rough soldierly living, ranging from sleeping underground to playing smart hands of Black Five. In Second Squad was Logue, another corporal, who toted a double-barreled shotgun on all their missions. With him was his good friend Logue, who lacked his companion’s penchant for authority and was far more taciturn. But the duo shared an affinity for weaponry and Logue prized a custom autopistol he fit with a stock, extended barrel, and forward grip. Fleming, who was a grenadier, was in Third Squad. By comparison to the more robust, jovial types in the platoon, he was far more moody. No one doubted his ability with the grenade launcher and the bionic facial supplements he wore were a testament to the number of engagements he fought in. With him was a man named Cuyper, who like half of the unit came out of the 540th Youth Corps after its annihilation in the Battle of Kasr Turris nearly seven years ago. Tough, broad in the chest, he provided a more stoic edge to Third Squad. 

A man like Queshire, in command of Third Squad, seemed very un-Cadian to some. Whereas the majority of Cadians in the peak of physical fitness boasted sinewy, muscular frames, he was far more narrow. While he possessed the height, he simply couldn’t put the weight on despite how hard he worked alongside the men. Many speculated it was because of this very lacking Cadian physique he possessed a somewhat more lackadaisical attitude than the other squad leaders. In garrison, he may have been somewhat lax in the governing of his squad but in combat he was a flexible leader. Holmwood was stern leader and strictly monitored all ten members of First Squad. If there was to be a review, First Squad would arrive first. If there was to be a firing exercise, First Squad would be on line first. Strong in the face and the chest, he was the kind of Cadian one saw on the sprawling posters pasted all over the Kasrs. 

Every platoon had their complement of Special Weapons Squads who, by nature, tended to be more eccentric to a degree. While all the survivors of the specialized unit were undeniably Cadian, their subtle mannerisms and devotion to their wargear were almost neurotic. All Guardsmen treated their weapons as an extension of themselves but these veteran troopers acted as if their arms were another soldier altogether. Among them was Arnold Yoxall carried an M36, a Meltagun, and a wide array of grenades and explosives. Before each mission, the well-built, scholarly-looking Cadian primed each individual grenade to his liking. Often, he found unique ways to maximize the effectiveness of his charges, whether that was adding extra chemicals or components or by merely taping them together into satchel charges. While many of the men were versed in explosives, he was a master of the art and took the time to lecture the men on the finer workings of these nifty weapons. Although one might not have guessed from the grease marks left on his brow and cheeks, he was a fiercely intelligent man who was on the track to become a warrior priest like his father before him. Instead, he became a foot soldier in the Cadian Imperial Guard, eventually becoming a grenadier, then a Heavy Weapons Squad trooper specializing in Missile Launchers and Mortars, and then finally graduated into Special Weapons. To a degree, he was elegant, and while he cussed, smoked, and drank like any rough Cadian, he was in possession of high morals. Everyone regarded him with respect, so much so they often referred to him by his given and family name together. 

His direct superior was a recently promoted Staff Sergeant Stainthorpe, who was recognized by his bravery and implementation of his troops during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. His rugged, scarred face and gruff disposition masked a deep intelligence of small unit tactics and the usage of wargear designated as Special Weapons. Only those who worked closely with such troopers or counted themselves among their numbers understood just how much training went into it. To be a squad leader in the Special Weapons Squads, one required a vast understanding not just of weapons—reliable laser, unstable plasma, devastating flamethrowers, powerful melta, destructive explosives—but how the men assigned such weapons were to use them. As such, he had an in-depth knowledge of mixed unit and small unit tactics, sniping, spotting, rangefinding, trenching, tunneling, sapping, infantry assaults, sieges, and more. His mere presence in the platoon gave it a flexible, tactical edge.

Hitch and Derryhouse wielded Plasma Guns and were comparable to the Guardsmen in regular infantry squads who carried M36 lasguns. But it was no small thing to bear such powerful but altogether unstable weaponry. To pick up such a weapon without having formal training in its use could result in the bearer being killed by it. While by no means as educated in fieldcraft as the likes of Yoxall and Stainthorpe, they were sagely in the care of their weapons. Hitch proved to be a reliable Guardsman who often detached from his team to one of the squads to give it an edge in firepower. Often, this required him to move across ground under fire. But the young Guardsman showed no fear when it came to such feats. His opposite, Derryhouse, was more specialized. Trained as a spotter, he was never far from his good friend and the platoon sniper Bullard. The two shared many commonalities; whether this was a result of their many years of service or by predispositions, no one quite knew. Both took combat seriously but their nature outside of it was jovial. Bullard especially proved to be raucous when garrisoned in a Kasr or on leave. Derryhouse tended to be more reserved on such occasions but always partook in merrymaking. Together, they made a sightly pair; Derryhouse, who was shorter and stout, and Bullard, who was tall and of average build. 

Finally, there was Tatum, who bore the Special Weapons Squad’s Flamer. Almost everyone in the platoon considered him somewhat made as he volunteered to undergo training with the weapon when he was first inducted into the unit. To many, it was like receiving a death sentence from a Commissar; the backpack-mounted fuel tank was a prime target for an enemy marksman. One shot could detonate the pack and engulf the user in flames. Somehow, Tatum managed to survive such a strike and his body was covered with the burn scars to prove it. Even after reconstructive surgery and bionic replacements, his face was fleshy and ragged. The skin around his left eye seemed to bloat, nearly squeezing it shut. But he remained undeterred, especially in combat; when casting flame onto an enemy position, one could either hear him singing hymns or laughing. 

A component to all three infantry squads was the field chirurgeon. Like the men in the Special Weapons Squads, they had undergone intensive training in their craft. Not only armed with standard wargear, they carried medical kits stocked with pain nullifiers, combat stimulants, generic stims, injectors, field sutures, and a Diagnosticator, they were the men of the platoon who immediately came to the others’ aid. Battiste was in First Squad, Salvia in Second Squad, and Walcott was in Third Squad. All three were incredibly brave and would rather dart through enemy fire than leave a wounded comrade in the thick of it. Walcott and Salvia both had a serious nature; they were blunt and to the point on and off the battlefield. When garrisoned, they were meticulous in the preparation of their kits. Battiste was a little more easygoing and was more likely to crack a joke or share a few light words upon treating a wounded man. Often, it was just his mere delivery of an average word or phrase that could make a man, crazed by adrenaline, laugh. Salvia had a rather pinched face for a Cadian while Walcott and Battiste were both fuller. Walcott was a rather trim man by appearance but was far stronger than anyone gave him credit for. Many bar fights and close encounters with the enemy left Battiste with a badly twisted nose that always appeared red. It made his face seem very warm and was only complemented by his ever-present big smile. Out of all of them, Salvia was the most soldierly out of them and shaved his head into a mohawk to emphasize that. The trio were a rather nifty bunch, just like the rest of the veteran Guardsmen. Bloody Platoon had been in the field for many years and accumulated a host of extra supplies. Capitalizing on this unreported surplus, they often went into battle with two medical kits instead of one.

Just as important to any platoon as their medical personnel, or perhaps more important, were the Heavy Weapons Squad. A standard, light infantry platoon lacked the constant presence of armoured and air support as mechanized and drop regiments had. While they could hold and take ground against similarly armed foes, anyone with heavier weapons or vehicles could easily overpower them. What drew the line were the Heavy Weapons, adding to the light infantryman’s mobility with extreme firepower. 

The ranking NCO in their Heavy Weapons component was Walmsley Major, who was in direct command of the First Heavy Weapons Squad but in actuality commanded both. He had a host of brothers and sisters, some serving in Cadian Regiments off-world, in the Interior Guard, or in regiments permanently stationed on the Fortress World. His family laid claim to a lineage of famous non-commissioned officers and he upheld the tradition well; he was highly decorated, although most in the platoon were. He was not the oldest of his siblings but by nature of being the oldest sibling present earned the moniker of ‘Major.’ Like many of his comrades, he was tall, big in his torso, muscular, had a squarish face, and a bright violet gaze. His immediate younger brother, whom everyone called Walmsley Minor, was not his twin but the resemblance was close enough. What distinguished them was the younger brother’s subtle, slimmer frame and narrower face. Some might have suspected that Walmsley Minor might have stewed at the thought of being a mere corporal and having to serve as his brother’s assistant. But he never complained and worked as hard as two men. Their shared blood never got in the way of their duties and didn’t prevent them from becoming close with the others. Of course, in garrison, the two were known to play a few practical jokes or to share in ridiculous conversations to earn the ire of their comrades. 

Skilled automatic weapons experts, they utilized one of Bloody Platoon’s Heavy Bolters. The other was manned by Albert and his loader Brownlow. Tall and strong, they often boasted the mechanized servos attached to their Flak Armour was just to stay in uniform; they could carry the gun and its tripod without assistance. Whether that was true or not was irrelevant; like the Walmsley brothers they were talented gunners. Often, they did not need to wait for orders to displace. Years of experience lent an uncanny knowledge of when and where to move their big gun. Moving it was no small feat even with servo enhancements and it was astonishing to the other men to see them weave across a battleground hefting it with such nimble ease. 

Heavy Bolters were powerful weapons and there was a certain honor bearing weapons the Adeptus Astartes carried. But when they needed something heavier, they went for one of the prized Cadian weapons: the Autocannon. Easy to build and maintain, it was versatile and was of use in almost every combat scenario a Cadian platoon found itself in. Like almost every weapon in the Astra Militarum’s arsenal, it possessed drawbacks but Bloody Platoon’s Autocannon team, Sudworth and Lowe found ways to mitigate them. Unlike Brownlow and Albert, they had no qualms about using both servos and suspensor harnesses, and utilized this not just to convey their weapon but carry extra ammunition for it. Generally, they equipped their weapon with a wheeled mount on long marches and flat terrain. This design was complemented by a bipod. However, when garrisoned or fighting on elevated terrain, they forwent the mount and traded the bipod for a tripod. Sudworth, the gunner, was not the most disciplined in his personage and often he was quietly cited for being out of uniform. One particular struggle was the order of precedence regarding his ribbon rack. But when it came to his weapon, he was nothing short of a sage. Autocannons tended to burn through their ammo too quickly and he was a master of controlled fire. Often, he treated his weapon more like a huge rifle than an automatic weapon. Still, when hordes of enemies attacked, he was swift to hold down the trigger. Lowe was one of the biggest men in the entire platoon and used his strength to carry even more ammunition than his gunner. Amiable and resolute, he was as loyal to the platoon as he was to the weapon he tended. When someone suggested leaving the heavy weapons behind during their flight from Kasr Fortis, it was Lowe who silenced the suggestion by threatening to knock the speaker’s teeth out with the barrel of his Autocannon. 

As devastating as Heavy Bolters and Autocannons were, neither proved a match for heavy armoured targets. Tanks and similar armoured vehicles were one of the many banes of light infantrymen. But Bloody Platoon had Foster, Ledford, Knaggs, and Fletcher. All four were burly, scarred, bright, brave, wild Cadians who operated the platoon’s anti-tank weapons. Foster, who lost his jaw while serving with the 540th Youth Corps and now had a bionic replacement, and Ledford, whose baldness revealed the bionic plate which made up the rear portion of his skull, manned the Lascannon. Heavy, cumbersome, and inelegant, they nonetheless used the weapon to great effect on the enemy. While the past months saw them dealing with ragged heretics instead of the Traitor Legions they had become rather accustomed to, they found ways to use the weapon. Depending on the power output, the standard M36 lasguns used by the infantrymen emitted red, blue, and golden lasbolts. But the sheer energy of the Lascannon gave the beam a radiant purple color and the report was incredibly loud. If it hit a man, it was certainly devastating, but even if it just struck the ground among the enemy it scorched the earth and threw debris into the air. The color, noise, and magnitude of the blast could severely impact or even break the enemy’s morale. Ledford and Foster were considered some of the bravest among the Heavy Weapons Squad as their weapon created a significant muzzle flash as compared to other weapons. Often drawing intense fire and protected only by the gun shield and whatever cover they could afford, they fought hard to support the platoon. Knaggs and Fletcher were considered braver still; their Missile Launcher stood higher than average on its tripod. The former Guardsmen possessed many wounds to his arms, shoulder, and face, as all he had was the launcher’s shield for protection. But he was deft in his use of the launcher and was able to destroy hard targets or pockets of resistance. His loader, Fletcher, was quite educated in the storage and implementation of munitions. Like the others, he was strong, and utilized his advanced flak armour to carry a diverse stock of missiles into battle. 

Lastly, there was the mortar team composed of Olhouser and Snyder. Olhouser was one of the most experienced, brave, and honored men in the platoon despite being a corporal. Previously, he served in the 1547th Artillery Regiment and was one of its few survivors. Awarded the Obscurus Honourifica for manning a Basilisk despite overwhelming odds, he was a prime Cadian. Upon his request, Bloody Platoon did not talk much of his esteemed decoration and treated him like any other trooper. He brought his skills to the infantry and used an advanced set of training in range finding, munitions, and spotting to effectively support the men with the mortar. Likewise, Snyder had similar training and was an adept loader. Although the others often made fun of the plucky, puggish mortarman for his position, he was correct when he insisted there was a necessary skill set for a loader. If a loader was not agile in his movements and ignorant of his commands, the mortar became a useless metal tube instead of a dangerous, effective weapon. These six men constituted the second Heavy Weapons Squad, which reported directly to Corporal Foster, the junior NCO. He ran a tight shift, perhaps tighter than Walmsley Major, but his command was not brittle. 

Finally, there was the Platoon Command Squad. One of the most important in their number was Sergeant Honeycutt, the senior medic. All the field chirurgeons reported to before they reported to the platoon commander. He was autocratic, grumpy, and temperamental whether he was treating a wounded man or not. But no one could deny his bravery under fire and the care he provided to the men on and off the battlefield. While lacking in manners, when a man required anything from the art of field medicine, they went to him first. Honeycutt’s worth was measured in the multitude of Crimson Skull medals on his chest. He was one of the few men in the entire 1333rd Regiment who had served off-world and returned to the planet. His knowledge of the greater Imperium was greater than anyone’s in Bloody Platoon but he was often hesitant to talk about it.

Among the platoon’s leadership was Color Sergeant Babcock who carried their standard. The flag, which bore the regiment’s colors and the specific numbers of the platoon, was a symbol of their pride, honor, faith, and victory on the field of battle. A Guardsman could find his courage renewed just by gazing at it flapping in the breeze. But even more inspiring was the Guardsman holding it and Babcock was no exception. Tall, broad in the chest, who kept all but the top of his head shaved, riddled with scars but ultimately undaunted, he was one of the most daring men in the platoon. Flags garnered attention just like the muzzle flash of Foster and Ledford’s Lascannon. Babcock _preferred_ it that way, believing the fire he drew saved the lives of his comrades. Often, he went into battle without a helmet, perfectly unafraid of a stray bullet striking his skull. A master with a Laspistol, he was even better with his Power Sword. He was the only man in Bloody Platoon with Duelist Honors and they all respected him for it. As deft as he was with a pistol and sword, more than once he had pierced the heart of a heretic with the shaft of the flag. Not once had he dropped it on the ground. 

Nobody could think of Bloody Platoon’s Command Squad without conjuring up the bubbly nature and earnest smile of Drummer Boy. His true name was Felix Gladwin and he held the rank of Corporal, but nobody ever referred to him by either. Drummer Boy stood out as a spirited soul among a platoon of personable Guardsmen. He was chipper, youthful, and very intelligent. The Vox-caster he carried was one of the most important pieces of wargear Bloody Platoon brought into battle. Without it, they were cut off from the rest of the regiment and whatever units were in support. It was easier to pick up and fire a lasgun in the heat of battle, but Drummer Boy withstood the test by monitoring the Vox channels and radioing in support. To be a platoon Voxman brought on extended training; he was an expert navigator, could call in for both artillery and air support, and was an expert technician. More than once, he was able to cannibalize communication sets for parts to repair their own Vox units. Although the other Voxmen in the platoon were all more experienced than him, Drummer Boy proved himself while still in the Youth Corps and they all deferred to his judgement. Everybody except Drummer Boy himself was aware of such a deep sign of respect. He was good natured in that way, but from time to time his youth showed and a bad battle left impressions upon him. So far, none of it prevented him from performing his duty. 

The newest addition to Bloody Platoon was Junior Commissar Lilias Juventas Carstensen. Like any individual who was produced by the Officio Prefectus, the men feared her at first. That fear was never absent but it had abated some. Replaced by a profound respect, Bloody Platoon admired the orange-haired, scarred Junior Commissar for her prowess and bravery in battle. Over the months, Bloody Platoon grew accustomed to her living among them. In a strange, surprising way, they felt rather safe with her. While her authority was bound by her station, she still did carry a great deal of weight in the daily going-ons of the men. But some Commissars were likely to break up games of Black Five or extinguish a light-hearted conversation because they heard something they didn’t understand or, more probably, simply didn’t like. Carstensen sometimes broke up their more rowdy behavior, policed some of their languages when they were bored or restless, and was quite diligent when it came to the men’s faith. Other than that, she left them well enough alone. A quiet sort, she didn’t engage with the troopers all too often unless it was necessary, but they were beginning to notice she was engaging them more often. This could mean anything from a curt nod to a few words outside of a lecture on faith, but the men appreciated it. Many recalled her bravery during the Battle of the Cove, the Battle of Army’s Meadow, and the Raid on Kasr Fortis. In each one, she proved to be a rallying point for the men. She was with them during the entirety of those battles and in hushed tones they believed she truly was one of their number. 

Likewise, Lieutenant Hyram had earned his place among the men. Once, he was a sniveling, out of place, sloppy excuse for a Cadian Shock Trooper. But through battle and with the aid of his erstwhile assistant, he had become a fine junior officer. His studious nature of the years was finally paying off now that he found his courage. Trapped in the confines of an Astra Militarum logistical office attached to the Departmento Munitorum sect on Cypra Mundi, he treated his wounded military spirit with numerous tomes on military tactics. Armed with this knowledge, his understanding of small unit tactics was almost unparalleled by anyone in Bloody Platoon. A minor noble by birth, he steadily shed most of his upper class tendencies and was, to the men, just another Shock Trooper. He stood in line with the enlisted men at the mess canisters, he practiced on the range with them, and often took time each night while garrisoned to sit with each squad for a while. Many of the men were illiterate and Hyram, being highly educated, took time to teach them their letters. Hyram, however, proved to be rather wily and was able to deflect some of Regimental Command’s attention from Bloody Platoon with his eloquent speech and well-worded assurances. Although still strictly monitored by their NCOs and Junior Commissar, the men were able to have a little bit more freedom in their barracks. In combat, he was personally brave but understood that an officer often had to command instead of act if they were to succeed. This troubled him, but he bore the burden well enough. Whatever doubts Bloody Platoon once had about him were extinguished by his newfound warrior spirit and his actions during their previous battles. 

Perhaps the most well-known among their number, a constant face in quiet times and battle, a man they all trusted and admired, was the platoon sergeant. Nicknames and warnames were very common among soldiers of the Imperium and Staff Sergeant Silas Cross earned his when he became an NCO. Some saw the squandered, minor noble too strict and taking his authority too far and dubbed him ‘Marshal Silas.’ When they realized he was pushing them so they would be more prepared to fight the enemy, the moniker shifted to ‘Marsh Silas,’ and almost every single individual in the 1333rd Regiment called him such. Hyram relied on him for almost everything, Carstensen trusted him almost as an extension of herself, he was a force multiplier for the other NCOs, and the enlisted men loved him. Everyone relied on his perseverance and even though Monty Peck was the best singer, they always asked Marsh to sing first. A colorful ribbon rack denoted his bravery in combat and he bore scars from many wounds. Hyram was their leader, but many considered Marsh Silas to be the very soul of Bloody Platoon. 

There were many others: Astle the Voxman of Third Squad, Bancroft, the Voxman in Second Squad, Caferro the grenadier, Hoole and Marsden who were both Corporals in First Squad, Capron, Northmore, Jupp, and Keach, all troopers. The First Platoon of the First Company, they were all decorated veterans who embodied Cadian martial spirit. But they were more than that; Marsh Silas firmly believed that despite their shared blood every Cadian platoon was an assortment of misfits. Indeed, Bloody Platoon was a motley, merry, brotherly band who drank heavily, smoked through half a dozen packs of lho-sticks a day, talked a lot, swore much, who were so eager to engage the enemy they couldn’t help but have a song in their hearts. 

***

The sun was still high over Army’s Meadow. Yellow flowers swayed in the sea breeze and sparkling, glassy, green waves smashed on the shore line. Down the paved road which wound through the peninsula’s center came a short column of Cadian Shock Troops. Their heavy winter uniforms were stained brown and white from dirt and snow. Shoe packs were blocky with cakes of dirt. Dull dents, pale scratches, and dry stains covered their Flak Armour chestplates. All wore beards and stubble as well as dust on their faces. But their swinging gait was strong and swift, they all wore smiles, and even the wounded men were joining in:

_“At the frontline, on Cadia’s soil,_

_Who shall stand in defense, who will commit to the toil?_

_Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon!_

_Come to slay! Seize the day!_

_Bloody Platoon is on the way!_   
  


_Traitors, heretics, xenos swarm upon the Imperium’s shore,_

_we’re ready to go, at the fore!_

_Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon!_

_Come to slay! Seize the day!_

_Bloody Platoon is on the way!”_

Marching abreast of the column, Marsh Silas had handed over his weapons and rucksack to Sergeant Holmwood so he could carry Jupp was shot in the ankles. Honeycutt extracted both bullets but they caused extensive damage to his feet and calves. Even with nullifiers and stimulants, it was too painful to walk. Unwilling to take up one of the field chirurgeons’ litters when more wounded men needed them, Jupp allowed the platoon sergeant to carry him upon his back. Despite his aching feet, Jupp joined Marsh and the others in their song. When they finished the second verse, they passed through the gate into their base of operations. At the front of the column, Hyram raised his fist into the air and Bloody Platoon gave a loud cheer. Despite fending off the ambush, they still managed to return to base ahead of schedule and before any other outfit in the 1333rd Regiment. 

Waiting for them was Colonel Isaev. He looked impressive in his winter khaki uniform; a dignified, olive drab mantle covered his right shoulder. In white letters it bore the Regiment’s numeral. On the left side of his chest were his ribbons and medals, which glinted in the sunlight. He wore a low-peaked khaki cap with a black bill. On the front was a golden Aquila pin. Behind him was a retinue of staff officers and senior enlisted personnel. All were impeccable in their military dress. 

Hyram gave orders and the platoon formed several lines. The Platoon Command Squad stood in front of the first ranks and in front of them was Hyram, Carstensen, and Marsh Silas. Jupp was still on his back, arms laced around his neck and his legs in the platoon sergeant’s hands. Colonel Isaev stormed up to the platoon leader and towered over him. He did not even bother to return the junior officer’s salute.

“Lieutenant Hyram!” he roared. “Just what do you think you’re doing back in camp from maneuvers so early!?”

“Sir! First Platoon, First Company has completed all its assigned maneuvers, reconnaissance, and engagements with the enemy, as per Regimental Command’s orders, is now reporting to the officer commanding to notify him of the mission’s success! Sir!” Hyram belted, his hand still poised at his brow. 

“And why is that your platoon is back before any of the rest!?”

“Sir, First Platoon, First Company is the best damned platoon in the entire 1333rd Regiment!”

Eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, lips pursed, Isaev lingered menacingly over Hyram. The platoon leader continued to keep his hand raised in salute. Suddenly, Isaev smiled and leaned back. He returned the salute and then shook Hyram’s hand. 

“Well done, Lieutenant. You and your platoon truly embody those values which we deem Cadian. Get your wounded men to the Mediace center for treatment and then set to work on your after action report. I’d very much like to decorate your cited men as soon as possible.”

“Of course, sir,” Hyram replied. While Isaev and the platoon leader began strolling deeper into camp, Marsh Silas turned around and repeated Isaev’s command. Walcott and Hitch were kind enough to take Jupp and Holmwood returned Marsh’s wargear. After donning his rucksack and throwing his weapons over each shoulder, he jogged to catch up. Already with Hyram and Isaev was Junior Commissar Carstensen. Politely, Marsh followed directly behind the trio and didn’t make his presence known. 

Hyram was speaking of their encounter with the heretics and was pointing at his data-slate. “Here, this one was a month ago. This one here and this one here, four weeks ago. Three weeks here, two weeks, and this was today’s action. We’re coming across a great deal of heretics out in the hinterland which is, theoretically, supposed to be clear right now. Now, we didn’t find anything while we conducted our maneuvers across that snowy waste, sir. Not a single camp, compound, repurposed fortification, or even a sentry’s post. We found _no_ trace whatsoever of heretics. Yet they assault us in the field and they probe us here.”

“Son, there are Sentinel and Valkyrie patrols out there every single day and night. I receive and review reports daily; there are no signs of a buildup at all. It might come as a shock to someone at your station but I try not to doubt my junior officers. You are not the only one to notify of these developments and I believe you all. But unless I have tangible proof of a heretical presence, there is nothing we can do but conduct our normal garrison duties.”

Marsh Silas raised an unimpressed eyebrow, pursed his lips, and shook his head. He recalled how quickly Colonel Isaev seized upon the notion that the filthy Eldar were planning to assault Cadia just by the mere presence of a single Pathfinder. Briefly, he wondered whatever happened to the escapee but then put it out of his mind. There was no use in mulling over it. Either way, he longed to take greater offensive operations in the sector but Isaev was being quite hesitant about it. He liked and admired the senior officer but Isaev often proved to be unknowable. Sometimes, he was ready to throw men into a potential battle at a moment’s notice but then would need a great out of information before committing them on another front. Marsh Silas didn’t quite remember him acting in such a manner but he supposed that after serving under Barlocke for so long, he was now exposed to the few faults his commanding officer possessed. 

_Is there something you want to discuss with me, my dear Silvanus?_ Barlocke, or rather the fragment of Barlocke’s voice resonated in Marsh’s mind. By now, he was accustomed to it and did not shiver so much when the paradoxical chill ran down his spine and the warm breath filled his head. Shifting his shoulders a little, he turned from the others. 

“Shh, not now,” he whispered under his breath. 

_Oh, but I thought you required something of—_

“Hush yourself, we’ll speak later,” Marsh insisted quietly. Junior Commissar Carstensen turned around sharply and gazed at him. Standing up straight, he did his best to appear normal. For a few moments, she held a piercing glare that eventually softened. She slowed down and began walking beside the platoon sergeant. “Junior Commissar,” he said, bowing his head.

“Staff Sergeant,” she greeted. “Is your back sore from the march?”

“Ol’ Jupp ain’t too heavy a man but I ain’t opposed to kicking these here boots off,” Marsh replied, looking down at his shoe packs. “Yerself, ma’am?”

“Quite fine.” She walked with her hands folded behind her back, as if she was inspecting a work detail. Her orange locks swayed back and forth across her shoulders. The sun shone on her pale face, giving it a slight pinkish hue. Marsh found there was something hesitant about her. While she faced forward, he caught a glimpse of her blue-green eyes occasionally glancing at him. Carstensen’s lips remained tightly pressed in a thin line. 

Just as Marsh was about to speak, trying to find something about the platoon to say, she turned her gaze. “I would like to inspect the perimeter of our section before we begin adding to the defenses. I’d like to gauge where our weakest points are and what kind of materials we need. It would be of most aid to me to have your assistance in this matter.”

“O’ course, ma’am,” Marsh replied, smiling a little. “I’m yer humble servant.”

“Very good,” she said, snapping her gaze forward again. Just as quickly, she brought it back. “Staff Sergeant, you are a servant of Lieutenant Hyram before me, and a servant of the Emperor before all else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marsh said, trying not to chuckle but failing. For a moment, he was worried she might take offense but she just blinked and looked ahead once more. Both focused on Hyram and Isaev, who had walked ahead somewhat. He was standing in front of Colonel Isaev and wore a pleading expression. Both arms were outstretched and his data-slate was in his right hand. 

“Sir, I ask again for your permission to reconnoiter the Cove.”

“We sealed that hole seven months ago, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir, I know, but I think the grounds might yield clues as to where we can find the heretics in this area. Bloody Platoon would only need our wargear and a week’s supply in order to fend for ourselves while out there, sir.”

“I understand you’d like to solve this mystery, Lieutenant. But I have to deny your request again. Your men need rest and we have more pressing matters at hand in the coming days.” Isaev folded his hands behind his back and stood up straight. “We are to be reinforced with a fresh batch of Whiteshields. Each platoon will be granted a squad of ten men. They shall be reporting on the morrow. Until then, attend your men.”

Hyram and Isaev exchanged salutes and the latter turned on his heel. Marching past Marsh Silas Carstensen and returning their salutes, he drifted back to Regimental Headquarters. As Bloody Platoon tramped up the cliffside slope to their barracks, the thro gathered together. 

“Whiteshields,” Marsh echoed to Hyram. The Lieutenant sighed and rubbed his jaw.

“It appears so,” he said apprehensively. “One more burden for the days ahead.”


	3. Chapter 3

After removing his Flak Armour and scarfing down a quick meal of porridge, made kindly by Drummer Boy, and reconstituted meatstuffs, Marsh Silas went topside again. Donning his soft-cover, low-peaked NCO cover, he waited in one of the observation pots dug into the trench. He took out his pipe, lit the contents, and began smoking. After taking a few puffs, he sighed and smiled a little. 

“How do you fare, old friend?”

_ I’d like to say sifting through your memories and thoughts tends to be entertaining but you wouldn’t believe the monotony. Even a Shock Trooper’s life appears droll. But I’m as content as I can be, Silvanus. _

Losing Barlocke at Kasr Fortis just moments away from rescue was still an open wound. Often, Marsh Silas’s meandering dreams fell upon the scene. The brave Inquisitor standing firm with sword and pistol against the foe. Bullets sparking against his armor, daggers glancing off. Bodies piling up at his feet, hands trying to pull him down, arms trying to wrap around him. In that way he disappeared, with the dark blue wreath of his Power Sword and bright yellow Ripper Pistol muzzle flash proving he was still among their throngs. No trace of him was ever discovered by recovery teams. Day by day, hope dwindled away. 

Marsh’s belief that his friend still drew breath continued to smolder like hot embers after a blaze. When his fragment made himself known, the seasoned platoon sergeant was overjoyed to not only hear the Inquisitor’s voice but feel it as he had so many times before. For many days afterward, Marsh would remove himself to a reserved, quiet place in camp and talk with him. But as time passed, the enormity of this condition began to sink in. Inside him was a fragment of another human being’s soul and mind. Their thoughts, feelings, personality, beliefs, and experiences now all existed within him. In some regard, he felt a great responsibility as the carrier and caregiver of this fragment. But he also felt a burden, more so than the task his friend had set him on. More than anything, he felt a great sense of sadness. While the fragment gave him hope, his presence also fostered a growing resignation in the Staff Sergeant that Barlocke truly was gone.

He was fairly certain the fragment was well aware of this but they never spoke about it. Always, they spoke like they had before. It gladdened his heart. Barlocke, teasing and cheeky as ever, often infiltrated at the worst opportunities. In these instances, he made it difficult to focus on what Marsh was actually doing and it took a silent reprimand to make him relent. Occasionally, a quip or a joke was shared and members of Bloody Platoon would look upon their platoon sergeant with confusion when he laughed seemingly at random. Whenever Marsh went to sleep, they often spoke before he closed his eyes. If they were alone or removed, they talked as well. In these ways, the loss and mystery of his old friend were quite alleviated. 

“Find anythin’ interesting while you been pokin’ around in there?” Marsh asked as he lowered his pipe. 

_ A minor noble’s son you are, or rather were. Stripped of your right to familial titles when your father was killed, I wonder, does that ever bother you? _

Marsh Silas tapped his bottom lip with the pipe’s neck, closed one eye as he gazed up at the sky, and hummed a little. Eventually, he nodded his head to the side and shrugged. 

“Sometimes?”

_ What an unattractive answer. _

“Whatcha want from me, Barlocke? It’s only by the Emperor’s blessing I was allowed to keep my name. I ain’t ever getting those titles back and why would I want’em? I got my own titles: Staff Sergeant, platoon sergeant, an’  _ Marsh Silas _ , and that’s good enough for me.”

_ If you say so, Shock Trooper. Ah, stand fast! She approaches! _

Marsh Silas quirked an eyebrow and turned around. Trudging down the trench was Junior Commissar Carstensen. She was far enough away that she wasn’t in earshot. As always, her hands remained folded behind her back, her black and crimson overcoat now buttoned that she was out of her Flak Armour. Her orange locks were tied back into a bun that sat just underneath the rim of her high-peaked cap bearing a golden Aquila. Without a word she traversed the steps and stood beside Marsh Silas. Although he was standing at attention, she did not dismiss him. Marsh remained stiff and still, facing her with his chest puffed out, chin up, arms flat by his side, and heels pressed together. 

Sea winds blew over them, rippling the mess camouflage netting that covered the top of the fortified rooftop and draped over its sides. Carstensen closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and let out a satisfied breath. Without looking, she reached over and plucked Marsh’s pipe from his lips. Turning it over in her hands, careful not to upend the contents from the bowl, she seemingly studied. Marsh continued to stare straight ahead, hsi eyes locked on the tight orange locks that showed from underneath her hat. 

Eventually, she looked back up and gazed at the sea.

“I have the pleasure to inform you that Lieutenant Hyram has cited you for bravery under fire. You will receive another Eagle Ordinary for attacking the enemy position alone, as well as the Crimson Skull for treating a man in combat.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am,” Marsh replied. Carstensen looked at him from the corner of her eyes. She seemed to be in a low mood—not angry, but depressed. It was uncommon for her to entertain such emotions. Bloody Platoon, Marsh Silas among them, had come to rely on her steadfast devotion to duty and incredible bravery upon engaging the enemy. To hear her bellowing commands, belting out both prayers and orders, and ushering the men on to fight brought great resolve to a Guardsman’s heart. Now, alone with him, she seemed to lack the fire she displayed elsewhere. 

Marsh Silas was more than surprised, he was concerned. When she finally turned, her blue-green eyes were level with his. She lifted the pipe, took a few puffs on it, and then put it to Marsh’s lips. 

“At ease, Staff Sergeant.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Marsh raised the pipe slightly with his lips and then hooked his thumbs on the belt loops of his trousers. He expected they would begin their inspection of the line. Instead, she turned back and continued gazing at the sea. Unsure of what to say or do, Marsh did the same. It was turning out to be a beautiful day. The sun was at its apex and the light shone unabated on the deep, blue waters of the channel between Army’s Meadow and Kasr Fortis. Wind whipped the waves, causing them to break and smash into one another. White crests and spray appeared everywhere. Every so often, the wind would drop and the waves would become more peaceful. Without the roiling water, the sun was reflected on the surface and thousands of individual pockets of golden light appeared. This would last only for a few moments before the wind returned and the sea grew mad again.

Across the channel, Kasr Fortis was alive with activity. Having long since been cleared of heretics and any corrupting presences, legions of Astra Militarum engineers, auxiliary Kasr workers, Adeptus Mechanicus Tech-Priests, Enginseers, servitors, and menials, were busy building a new bastion on the island. Much of the ancient city was already cleared away, with aircraft and maritime ships hauling the debris away to be dumped into a crag in a deeper part of the sea. The foot soldiers of the 1333 rd Cadian Regiment were not privy to the full details of the reconstruction. As a result, a betting pool was started within Bloody Platoon over whether it would be a permanent base of operations or a new Kasr. Most bets were leaning towards the former but a few believed the latter option was truer. The pool was getting close to one hundred and fifty Thrones. Marsh tossed a few of in there himself and was prepared to add a few more when he caught sight of camp towers instead of Kasr spires.

Again, he found his eyes drawn to Carstensen. Her lips were tightly pursed and she seemed almost hesitant. Unable to deny his concern any longer, he cleared his throat and lowered his pipe. “Ma’am? Are you well?” Carstensen’s gaze turned sharply and her eyes seemed a bit brighter.

“A non-commissioned officer need not concern himself with the affairs of Officio Prefectus personnel,” she replied hastily before looking ahead once more.

“Apologies, ma’am,” Marsh said. He chuckled a little. “I suppose I’ve gotten quite used to ya, so sometimes I end up speaking like you’re one o’ my comrades.” The words were out before he properly thought about them. His breathing hitching and a startled cough passed between his lips. He nearly dropped his pipe as he turned to face her. “I don’t mean no disrespect to your authority, Junior Commissar!”

Carstensen’s lips twisted into a wry sort of grin. 

“Calm down,” she ordered. “We’ve shared much blood together and I shan’t punish you for speaking out of turn.” Turning, she offered him a lightened expression. “Some would not consider such an affirmation of comradeship to be speaking out of turn, anyways.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Marsh replied, relieved. 

“Ma’am,” she echoed, as if she was annoyed. “Come, let us begin our tour.”

Bloody Platoon’s section of the perimeter was seated on the cliff in front of their barracks. Structured in the Cadian style of trenching, there were several series of zigzagging trenches. The nucleus was their infantry barracks, which had secondary firing pits, a mortar pit, and other fortifications adjacent to it. Behind it was a small support trench which housed a dugout designed to be an aid station as well as two supply rooms. These two networks were connected to one another by communication trenches, facilitating the transfer of troops from emplacement to emplacement. Another set of communication trenches from these positions and the barracks itself went to the parapet, or the ‘fire trench,’ as the Guardsman referred to it. This trench had a raised rear lip for protection from bombardment as well as a firing step that allowed the Guardsman to stand up and engage targets. Firing bays were also included, going about a meter out from the trench itself. Thick layers of sandbags and coils of barbed wire lined the edges of the trenches, ensuring the men had extra cover and didn’t allow enemies to pass over them. Only a few wooden planks acted as bridges and these could be easily collapsed by the men inside the trenches thanks to a primitive drawbridge system devised by Sergeant Stainthrope and Arnold Yoxall. 

Within the parapet and the communication trenches were different kinds of dugouts. Bloody Platoon lived mostly in their barracks, so these dugouts were more or less shelters rather than spaces to dwell in. However, they were not weak. Each one was made of reinforced rockcrete, covered with a heavy layer of earth, and then sandbags. Most had a metal stovepipe that allowed men to brew recaf and cook meals when they were on watch or during protracted sieges. Others had cuttings in the walls similar to that in the underground portion of the barracks that could facilitate a sleeping bag. Cadian doctrine dictated most of these dugouts were to be around three meters deep and six meters wide. Almost all the dugouts in the parapet were designed for combat rather than providing a means of extra cover. Many were reinforced, three by five meter rockcrete bastions and were utilized as gun positions for the Heavy Weapons Squads. Observation posts were smaller, only being around two by two meters, and relied more on sandbags for defense and camouflage netting for concealment. But a few Guardsmen could turn it into an excellent hardpoint during a battle; a reliable tactic was to have three to four troopers armed with lasguns and then a grenadier to provide heavy support. 

Some parts of the parapet were also reinforced for the infantry. Instead of just providing a firing step, the left flank which overlooked the path leading down to the beach had metal loopholes and slits in the sandbag walls for men to fire out of. Both flanks ran down and merged into the parapets of other platoons’ trenches. First and Second Platoons on their company were on the left flank, their defense joining Second Company’s station along the beach. On the right were men from Third Company. In some sections, there were single-man firing pits designated for marksmen like Bullard or good shots like Cuyper and Foley. These were considered the weakest points in the line as they were extended by a meter from the main trench and could only hold one man reliably. Barbed wire was erected here as well as sandbags, but they were never more than a few meters away from a dugout or firing bay. 

Having had the benefit of many months to work on their line of trenches and repairing them after the Battle of Army’s Meadow, the trench floor was made of wood. These floorboards were raised to prevent flooding and facilitated draining in the rare occurrences it rained. As well, there were many little tools and nooks designed by the men to make their life in the trenches easier. Ammunition boxes and supply crates were often slid into cuts made into the communication trenches. During a battle, a man running to the parapet could simply grab a box without breaking stride and bring it to the Guardsmen already there. Because of the long winters in their sector, there were special collectors in the support trench that collected snow. Beneath the bowl was a candle, protected from the wind by a few small metal disc-shaped shields, which could be lit. The flame would heat the pan and melt the contents. The water would then drain through a pipe resting on an earthen shelf in the trench proper and fill up a homemade trough, which had a faucet at both ends. If a Guardsmen wanted water, all he had to do was turn the palm-sized valve on the faucet, fill up his canteen or tig mug, and then turn the valve back. This was used more for filling up pots to brew recaf or for shaving than for drinking. If a man did want a drink, he had to leave his canteen or mug on the shelf for a few minutes waiting for the warm water to cool off. Sometimes, the trough would be almost full to the brim and if it wasn’t regularly trained the water would free. If the men assigned to a night watch filled the trough, the morning watch had to break the ice with a trench knife. 

Besides sandbags and barbed wire, mesh netting covered with brown strips of felt or cloth were a common feature. These provided concealment for the troops in the trenches and were found most commonly over the forward dugouts and firing bays. In the secondary trench, the mortar pit and other firing bays had similar coverings. In some locations, the netting stretched over intersections, junctions, and entrances to the shelters. While they provided no protection from the wind, the sun could be overbearing even in winter so shifts were taken in the dugouts or under the nets to prevent snow blindness. 

Cadian Shock Troops were excellent on both the offense and defense and Bloody Platoon was no exception. Although the strongest aspect of a defense were the men in the trenches, they had taken time to finely design their section. Already, there were double layers of barbed wire coils and fencing in front of the parapet and lining the communication trenches. Every bunker was reinforced with extra sandbags as well as wooden planks leftover from the shipments to make the floorboards. While the planks couldn’t stop a heavy caliber round or explosive on their own, in bundles strapped and tied to the exterior walls could mitigate the velocity and thus the munition’s ability to penetrate. After the Battle of Army’s Meadow and the onslaught of the undead, Bloody Platoon installed new mines in the small space between the cliff’s edge and the parapet. These were anti-personnel mines designed to explode upwards rather than outwards, sparing the men from the terrible threat of shrapnel. Rough, yellow, straw-like grass grew in patches along the cliff edge, so the men marked the locations of mines by covering them with a thin layer of soil topped by the grass. A Cadian practice were a styling called ‘quick barricades,’ which were spiked barriers slotted into a trench wall adjacent to intersection. If forced to give ground, retreating troops yanked the barricade out and could slow down pursuers or make a strong stand.

As well, Stainthorpe and Yoxall devised another strategy in case heretics or, Emperor forbid, the undead ever attempted to scale the cliff. With an abundance of barbed wire coils on site, they decided to rig a delivery system that could drape the wire over the edge. Spring-loaded systems made of square wooden boards and metal coils were laden with square-shaped sections they cut, reattached, and folded on top of each one another. At the end of the final section were ropes which were tied to anchors. The anchors themselves were metal spikes with looped ends encased in rockcrete pooled in the ground. A pull of the lever would activate the spring-trape, launching the blanket of barbed wire out over the cliff. When the ropes went taught, the barbed wire descended and fell onto the cliff face in a vertical column. Anybody caught under it would be entangled and cut to pieces. Enemies who attempted to climb with have the skin on their hands and fingers sliced open and their clothes caught in the barbs. What was most ingenious about the design was the pulley system incorporated into the spring-launched; the barbed wire could be retracted and reloaded. The only negative aspect is that they would have to be folded over one another again in the proper order. Broken strands would have to be repaired but this was an easy job for the likes of veteran Guardsmen. Both Yoxall and Stainthrope were quite proud of the design. 

As for a warning system of climbers, the design was more rudimentary. Twine was tied between small wooden stakes driven into the ground along the edge of the cliff. At first, spent ration tins were hung from the twine but the wind often jostled them. The clanging would rouse Bloody Platoon unnecessarily, so Yoxall and Stainthorpe came up with a solution. Instead, the twine was left bare and followed a discrete series of secondary lines into the parapet’s sentry posts and observation points. When a hand or a foot fell on the twine, the pressure sent vibrations along the string. These vibrations then resonated into an empty ration tin can which trembled audibly, thus allowing the lookouts to raise the alarm. Although still prone to issues from the wind, generally the twine and string was low enough to the ground and taught between the wooden stakes it had ceased to be an issue. 

Walking through the trenches, Carstensen took meticulous notes on her data-slate. They would inspect a section of trench, take note of its qualities and fortifications, come to a conclusion, and then she would log the information in her device. It was a slow process but with a fully belly and agreeable company, Marsh did not mind so much. 

“I should think a third layer of barbed wire should be added. Perhaps not as thickly as the first two,” Carstensen recommended. 

“Ol’ Arnie Yoxall there made sure the mines was all planted in patterns to funnel the enemy into the big guns’ crossfire. Maybe we could set’em up some way to keep the enemy bottled up and guide’em into where we can kill’em.”

“A tad complex for such a little ground,” Carstensen said. A moment later, she typed it into her data-slate. “But a sound strategy nonetheless.”

“It doesn’t have to be wire, either,” Marsh said as they walked into an OP and leaned out to get a better look at their defenses. “Maybe low stakes. No, no...how about them caltrops? Low profile and liable to put a hole in a heretic’s foot. Even if they don’t go over’em, that’ll give them less room to move around.”

Carstensen nodded and recorded the information. By this time, she had taken off her cap and her orange locks shone in the sun. Marsh had taken off his own and secured it under the loop on his shoulder. He watched the Junior Commissar while he waited for her to finish. Her green-blue eyes were focused as they ran across the screen. She was a skilled typist, her thumbs tapping on the keypad quickly. The only one who could type faster than her was Hyram, although Marsh surmised an Adeptus Administratum scribe could out-pace them both. Although, he would never tell them that no matter how much it made him grin. 

She noticed him staring and looked up. Marsh found that whenever a superior officer began looking his way, he had one of two options. In his presence was not noted before, he went to attention and saluted. But if he was already in their presence, he would look away and attempt to appear preoccupied. Instead, he maintained her gaze. He was not sure what compelled him to do such a thing. Yet, he was not scared of rebuke or a reprimand. Perhaps, he was consoled by her neutral expression rather than one of annoyance or threat. 

Eventually, she glanced at her data-slate.

“How go your lessons with Hyram?”

Marsh smiled.

“You know your High Gothic, right ma’am?”

“Some.”

“Hyram does too and he showed me how to write my name in it the other day.” He reached into his kit-bag, produced a parchment scrap, and a field pen. Eagerly, he went to the sandbag wall, set the parchment down, and wrote down his name in passably neat letters: Silvanus Crux. His pen strokes were steady but slow; it took him nearly a minute to finish. When he did, he beamed with pride as he handed over the parchment. “See? Pretty good isn’t it, ma’am?”

“You’ve come a long way, although your penmanship still needs work.”  
“Don’t I know it!” Marsh chuckled as he took it back. Putting it back into his kit bag along with the pen, he shrugged a little. “Ever since you said it after the first assault during the Battle o’ the Cove, I wanted to figure out how to write it down. Hyram sure made me work for it. We be entering what he calls ‘proficiency tests.’ I tell ya, ma’am, a marksmanship evaluation is easier than those.”

“You remember what I said in the tent that night?”

“O’ course, ma’am!”

Junior Commissar Carstensen lowered her data-slate and looked away slightly. She smiled, truly smiled, not the ghostly upturn at the corners of her mouth that baffled the men of Bloody Platoon. Small as it was, it was clear and Marsh Silas found himself surprised. It changed her pale face, providing an element of warmth that seemed so out of place. Even her eyes, so constantly resolute, proved to take on a softer appearance and the glint of her colorful irises seemed warmer. 

An enlisted man was never supposed to gawk at an officer or any individual above his station ranging from the Commissars to the priests. But he found he couldn’t look away. It was not so much the rarity of her smile as the smile itself that was so captivating to him. She was so pale-faced her lips barely stood out from the skin on her cheeks. Now that she was smiling, the natural pink hue became perfectly visible. 

Carstensen looked back at him. 

“I did not think you remembered.”

“How could I forget?” was all Marsh could think to say. Carstensen held up the data-slate. 

“Come and look.” 

Doing his best not to appear timid, Marsh Silas approached her. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they looked at the data-slate together. The screen was a deep green with the letters appearing a lighter, yellow shade. The Junior Commissar tapped the beginning of the bottom paragraph at the end of many blocks of text. Marsh Silas gazed at it for a few moments. 

“You want that I should read this when you’ve just written it, ma’am?”

“A Guardsman should ever and always be eager for a chance to prove himself and his training in front of his officer,” she replied. Marsh let out a breath-like sort of laugh, leaned forward, and held the other side of the data-slate with his gloved hand. The khaki fingertips almost touched the black leather of Carstensen’s glove on the opposite side. Clearing his throat, the platoon sergeant mouthed a few of the words at first, nodded, and began to read aloud. 

“It is of the opinion of Staff Sergeant Cross that the trenchworks should be a...afforded a third line of ob-stac...obstacles. Barbed wire eeeen...ah, entanglements have been considered, although this already being in great use it is his recommendation that caltrops be installed. Caltrops offer a tactical ad-van-tage to defenders as it slows down troops and forces them to find clearer ground. This clearer ground can then be swept by heavy fire, dividing sections of the line into kill zones.”

As he read, he became acutely aware of how close Carstensen was. He equated it to the small screen of the data-slate. For them to both read it, they needed to bring it close to their faces. As such, they were almost cheek to cheek. Their shoulders were pressed together. Carstensen, seemingly focused as she followed along, didn’t glance at him. Marsh hoped she didn’t smell the porridge and meat on his breath. Quite naturally, she nodded when he succeeded in pronouncing or sounding out a larger word. Apparently so transfixed on the impromptu lessons, she naturally raised her hand and placed it on his back. To feel her hand’s weight on the middle of his back made the platoon sergeant anxious but not in a way he found altogether disagreeable. 

When he finished, they both stood back up and faced each other. Her hand fell from his back quickly. 

“You’ve improved greatly, Staff Sergeant. Be wary, though; Hyram’s a pen-pusher in his heart of hearts. He may have you writing his reports when this is all said and done.”

Marsh blinked and looked over at her. Carstensen glanced at him and he could the corner of her mouth twitch into a half-smile. He chuckled politely. 

“I sure hope not. I may be a lowly sort but I like to think the Emperor made me for fighting.”

“You are not so lowly to the likes of these men or to the Lieutenant or even myself,” Carstensen assured him as they walked back to the front of the OP. Together, they looked out over the channel again. A flight of Valkyries swept low over the water as they flew towards Kasr Fortis. Gigantic cranes were all over the rockcrete foundations of many buildings and military structures. Slowly, they turned, their cables hefting huge blocks of rockcrete or bundles of metal timbers. Before long, Carstensen tucked her data-slate away. “And the Inquisitor saw much in you as well.”

“We was certainly close,” Marsh sighed. “He wanted me to come with him after our mission to Kasr Fortis.”

“It is an honor to have one’s abilities assessed sufficient to join the ranks of the Inquisition.”

Marsh Silas chuckled sadly.

“I doubt it. ‘You’re the only one I like,’ he said to me before the mission jumped off.”

“He held a great deal of affection for you?” 

“Methinks, at times, it was more than what I bore for him. He became a brother-soldier to me and a good friend.”

“It...” Carstensen began. She pursed her lips and then released a slightly annoyed breath. Marsh Silas was somewhat surprised. He never saw her frustrated even in small ways. Eventually, she looked at him from the corner of her eye. “...you could have gone with the Lord Inquisitor even without Barlocke. What you were offered was an opportunity few would refuse. I like to think that if I were in your boots, I would have the strength to decline and remain with the platoon. But I am not sure. Regardless, I think it is a...very good thing you stayed. The platoon needs you.”

Her eyes quickly flitted back towards the sea. Marsh smiled a little and without looking held the pipe over to her. A moment passed and he felt the pipe plucked from his fingertips. While he listened to her puff quietly on the pipe, he folded his arms across his chest and continued smiling. He felt very comfortable beside her then and although they had come to the end of their task, did not want to return to the barracks just yet. The hour was just passing and the sun was still high in the sky. If the wind was absent, it would have been warm enough to take off his coat. 

Past Kasr Fortis he could see a weather front approaching. Gray clouds began to fill up the sky and slide in front of the sun. Intermittent shadows crossed over their OP, briefly bathing them in darkness. The air grew colder and the wind became stronger. Before long, the wind carried the first snowflakes down to Cadian earth. When he finally looked back at Carstensen, she was holding the pipe out to him. But when he reached for it, she drew it away. Marsh lowered his hand and raised his eyebrows. Slyly, she looked at him sideways and then held it back at. Tentatively, he grasped for it but again she took it from his reach. Smiling now, he began to reach across her to get it. Instead, she held it out farther with her other hand. 

“You are too cruel, Junior Commissar,” Marsh teased.

“Cruelty would be tossing this pipe into the minefield,” she remarked smartly as she finally returned. “I would not do such a thing to an heirloom so precious.”

“I thank you,” he said, pretending to sound relieved. “Aye, it was my father’s. About all his family let me keep of him. He went everywhere with it. I never saw my mother smoke by herself. No lho-sticks or stubs, no tabac, nothing until my father came back from his duty stations. It seemed all she ever smoked was his pipe and only if they were together.” He laughed. “When he was at his desk filling our reports, she would come up behind him and steal it when he wasn’t looking. Or she would take it right from his mouth and make him chase her.”

He turned the pipe in his hands several times, running his thumb over the golden Aquila and tracing the neck with his forefinger. “Whenever it snowed, they would go to the window together. They wouldn’t say a word, just stare out at the snow and pass the pipe between them. I suppose when you’re that close to someone, words ain’t entirely necessary.”

Carstensen peered at him curiously for a time before directing her gaze to the gray clouds overhead. The snow was falling steadily and a thin layer of white dust now covered the sandbags. Eventually, she sighed. 

“Tis no window, but a view nonetheless.”

“Indeed, ma’am,” Marsh Silas replied. The two looked at each other for a time before the platoon sergeant smiled at her. Carstensen didn’t and offered an expectant expression, as if she was waiting for him to come to an understanding. It took Marsh Silas a few minutes to understand the scenario he just described and how similar it was to the very one he and the Junior Commissar now occupied. Clearing his throat, he shrugged shyly and leaned out, knocking his pipe against one of the wooden stakes holding up the roof of the OP. The ashes fell into the snow and he returned his pipe to his kit bag. 

“I think it is time I go and make my report to Lieutenant Hyram,” Carstensen finally said. “Proceed to the barracks at your leisure and then send up the first watch. We do not want the platoon to become complacent, now do we?”

“Be most shameful, ma’am,” Marsh said, trying to sound as professional as possible. Carstensen sighed. 

“Ma’am,” she echoed distastefully. Facing him entirely, she let her hands fall from behind her back and hang by her sides. Her expression was not quite urgent or pleading, but Marsh Silas was savvy enough to know when someone wanted to say something but couldn’t. Her green-blue eyes fell from his, her mouth moved slightly, and more than once it appeared she was about to speak only for her to stop herself and recede slightly. 

Eventually, seemingly put out by the endeavor, she stood squarely and narrowed her brow. “We are bound by the hierarchy of the Astra Militarum, Staff Sergeant Cross. To afford appropriate respect from every rank to every station is to keep in its traditions as well as the will of the Emperor. To breach these honorable formalities and gestures of respect is an offense deemed punishable by the inconvenienced ranking officer or individual. However, nothing is written regarding a higher ranking officer or individual taking  _ no  _ offense at a breach of this doctrine. When one encounters these gaps, they must rely on their best judgement to come to a decision of taking action or taking none at all. In such a way, we see fellow Guardsmen, despite ranks, refer to each other by given or family names, or by any number of stylization’s. Often, their experiences and survival through countless tumultuous battles foster these monikers and brotherly affections. It does not impair their ability to wage war against the Imperium’s many foes and draws them closer together as comrades. Nor does it affect the hierarchy within their unit, such as a platoon, and in fact strengthens it. So, these acts might be of service to the Imperium and thus are acceptable by the standards of the Astra Militarum. Within reason.”

Carstensen took a step closer to him and opened a palm. Again, she opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself short. Instead, she just sighed. “Thank you for your aid in this matter, Staff Sergeant. I am most appreciative. I shall see you at the evening mess.”

“Yes, Junior Commissar,” Marsh Silas said. She walked out of the OP and began to go up the trench. Marsh walked out as well but lingered by the OP entrance. “Ma’am?” Carstensen stopped and looked back at him. He smiled at her. “You know, most o’ these gunmen round’ these parts call me Marsh Silas. A few call me by the name my mother gave me, like the Lieutenant, although he is quite fatherly about it. That’s to be expected of a good man like him. But my rank? When mean First Sergeant Hayhurst tears into me or one o’ the staff or senior officers has words with me, that’s when they bring up my stripes.” He leaned against the post of the OP cover and looked down at his boots. “But you ain’t any o’ them to me and you certainly ain’t sharing them harsh words. If it it ain’t too much o’ a hassle for ya, I think I should prefer if you be callin’ me Silas from now on.” Marsh followed it up with an affable shrug. “When it’s just us two, o’ course.”

Carstensen stared at him for a long time as snow began to collect on her shoulders and the black bill of her cap. Then she smiled warmly once more.

“I should find that...most agreeable, but only under the condition that you should call me Lilias.”

“Agreed,” Marsh said. He walked forward, took off his glove, and extended his hand. Carstensen removed her own and slid her hand into his. Their palms were warm together. Without another word, the Junior Commissar put her glove back on and departed. 


	4. Chapter 4

Marsh Silas strolled down the stuffy tunnels that made up the honeycombed complex of the under-barracks. The musty smell of soil and dank odor of wood from so many support beams permeated the air, as well as the smells from purification and cleaning oils, body odor, armour and boot polish, lho-sticks, and cooking meat. Ducking into the center communal area, he found Drummer Boy by the stove and sliding two skillets on the heated top. Around him were Foley, Logue, Mottershead, Hitch, Tatum, and Fleming Everyone was sitting at the tables, leaning against the tunnel timbers, or hunched over in one of the bunk cuttings in the wall. Guardsmen talked in low tones as they played a hand of Black Five, smoked, or ate dry and cold portions from their rations. Some who opened up the sealed packages were greeted with the rotten scent of spoiled foodstuffs there were supposed to be preserved Promptly tossed into one of the waste basins they kept around, they angrily opened another ration in the hopes of finding something better or at least fresher. Contents that proved to be edible and desirable were placed on the table among some golden Thrones as part of the bets for Black Five. Others were more stingy and didn’t wager them.

“How’s the game going?” Marsh asked, poking his head in. Everyone looked up at him.

“Hey, Marsh Silas.”

“How goes it, Marsh Silas?”

“This here grenade thumpin’ son of a bitch has got every card in the deck.”

“If you be accusing me o’ cheatin’ you’ll be eating my knuckles for supper.” 

“Try not to kill each other over a game,” Marsh ordered, smiling. “Drummer Boy, whatcha got for us.”

Drummer Boy turned around with an unsatisfied expression. With a wave of his arm, he motioned to the dark meat sizzling on the pan.

“I ain’t got any idea as to what this meat here is. It ain’t Grox that’s for sure. Might be better in a stew, methinks.”

“Whatever you gotta do so that we ain’t eatin’ cold tonight, do it,” Marsh ordered. 

Marsh Silas departed and went to Third Squad’s section of the barracks. While many had doffed their Flak Armour and helmets, they were still dressed in their winter uniforms. Walking in, he found Sergeant Queshire crouched on the floor facing his bunk. His rucksack was on the floor and against the wall, and he was rummaging through. Coming up behind him, the platoon sergeant tapped him on the shoulder. “I need your men on first watch.”

Queshire sighed, clearly disappointed at the prospect of standing guard in the cold for several hours. Marsh understood and didn’t hold it against him or anyone else. Just because it was their duty didn’t mean they had to like it. Just as long as they performed it ably, they could complain about it all they wanted. 

The squad leader picked up his Flak Armour and began to put it on. As he put his helmet on, he turned back to Marsh.

“Any reason in particular why you be choosin’ me first?”

“Because I like you the least,” Marsh joked as he marched out. Queshire waved him off dismissively but still smiled. Weaving through the tunnels, he checked on every single group of Guardsmen until he ended up in his section. There he found Arnold Yoxall already laying in his own bunk polishing his trench knife with a clean rag. Across the room was Sergeant Babcock who was leaning against the wall as he spoke to Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor, who were sitting shoulder to shoulder on a lower bunk. 

Upon seeing the platoon sergeant, everyone greeted him with a hearty, ‘Marsh Silas!’ He returned the greeting as he put his soft-cover NCO cap, cartridge belt, and his brown leather holster on his bunk. “Get yourselves to the communal comb, Drummer Boy be whippin’ something up for us.”

“Hopefully it tastes as good as it smells,” Babcock remarked. He made a fist and gently tapped Marsh’s shoulder with it as he passed. Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor clapped him on top of his shoulder as well. It was a familiar greeting between Cadian Guardsmen, one of many greetings to denote respect and comradeship. But when Yoxall got up, he didn’t make such a gesture. Instead, he smiled softly, raised his arm so that his elbow was parallel to his waist, and cocked his forearm up and out slightly. His fingers curled into a fist. He held the gesture even after he passed through the entrance and followed the others down the hall. Blinking, Marsh Silas walked back through and watched his friend, disappearing and reappearing in the alternating lights of the tunnel, until he was out of his sight. 

Such a salute was only shared within Bloody Platoon, adopted from the signature of the Inquisitor who fought with them so long ago. From him, Marsh Silas adopted it, and over the months the men of the platoon had as well. Some days, when Marsh gave and received it, he didn’t pay it much mind. On rare occasions, he was struck by images of his long lost friend drifting through the camp at night, disappearing into the shadows while maintaining it. Such a sight used to fill him with suspicion, wonder, and even dread. Now, such memories brought about a melancholy that was not easily shaken. 

Leaning against the timber support beam of the entrance, he stared down the tunnel for a long time. He didn’t move, speak, and hardly blinked. His violet eyes sustained a hopeful but firm expression. 

_ I shan’t be coming down the tunnel, Silvanus.  _

Marsh leaned his head against the wood, his smoothed hair ruffling somewhat, Sighing, he looked down at his boots and his hands fiddled with his belt buckle, having nothing else to occupy them. 

“I know,” the platoon sergeant whispered and turned around. He went to the curtain which separated Lieutenant Hyram’s chamber from the rest of the platoon’s. Reaching in, he drummed his fingers against the wooden trim outlining the entrance. “Staff Sergeant Cross requesting permission to enter, sir.”

“Granted.”

He found the platoon leader hunched over the table he used as a desk. Before him was his Data-slate as well as a number of documents and a large map he brought with him during their forays into the Cadian hinterland. Much of the paperwork were copies of the after action reports he sent up to company headquarters and then passed up to the Regiment. Lines of text were circled in red field-quill ink or underlined. On the map, a number of spots were circled and had small notes written beside them. Hyram himself was scribbling some notes on a palm-sized pad of parchment he kept with him at all times. Leaning over the desk, he propped his left arm on the edge and rested his forehead against his palm. His fingers clutched a bundle of locks from his bright blonde hair. Beside him was a tin mug of untouched recaf. It was still hot and steam rose from it, drifting upwards in the glow of the yellow lamp pack on the far corner. 

For a time, Hyram didn’t speak or even look at Marsh Silas. Eventually, the platoon sergeant walked over, pulled up a makeshift stool, and sat beside him. He began looking over the documents; many of the circled or underlined segments denoted locations. The southern coastal road, northern coastal road, the northern supply route, several of the western trails used to break into the countryside or traverse the coast adjacent to Army’s Meadow and Kasr Fortis. Eastern mountain auxiliary pass, eastern main route, and the northern supply route again. Words like ‘ambush,’ ‘large heretical force,’ ‘well-armed cultists,’ ‘no enemy camp sites found,’ ‘outside artillery range,’ and, ‘reliant on air support,’ appeared multiple times. The more he examined them, the more he found these were not just Hyram’s after action reports; there were reports from Second and Third Platoons as well. Then, he found more reports from Second and Third Companies. More surprisingly were documents from units  _ outside  _ of the 1333 rd Regiment; tactical squadrons from the Navis Imperialis, convoys conveying personnel from the Departmento Munitorum’s Engineer and Labour Corps, Interior Guard units, supply convoys, and other Cadian regiments. Similar language was circled and underlined throughout all the paperwork.

Tidying up the desk somewhat but carefully not to bump into his commanding officer, Marsh stacked the paperwork and slid it next to the map. He then brought the map closer to him, carefully but ensuring that it made a slight rasping sound. A teasing smile tugged at his lips at the obnoxious sound and he glanced at Hyram from the corner of his eye. But the platoon leader continued to take notes, his brow furrowed over his violet eyes and his mouth pressed into a tight line. Disappointed, Marsh’s smile fell and he gazed at the map. At first, there appeared to be no correlation between the circled locations. After a few moments of studying, Marsh realized these were all the spots in which Bloody Platoon were ambushed, as well as other units from within the Regiment. 

Hyram suddenly slammed his finger down on the greatest density of red circles. It was a spot Marsh Silas was well aware of. The northern coastal road merged into the northern supply route, which continued running to the far north. Adjacent to the countryside ridges and hills and just north of Bloody Platoon’s latest ambush site was the eastern main route. Branching off it were many of the auxiliary paths, winding their way through the mountains. Both the auxiliary paths and the main route led through the Dagger Mountains—named so for its similar shape to the weapon—then to the highest peak, known as the Cross-Guard, where Kasr Sonnen sat.

Kasr Sonnen was in an advantageous position, with natural defenses all around it. Most of the Dagger Mountains were woven with deep entrenchments, tunnelworks, bunks, and other Militarum installations and garrisons. It was more of a mammoth fortress than a simple mountain range. But a few months ago, there was no way to reach these fortifications or Kasr Sonnen from the west. Any friendly forces had to travel southeast, loop around the bottom of the low mountain range to the eastern side, proceed north past the range’s continuation, Locket Mountain, and then proceed up the only road to Kasr Sonnen. Dubbed the southeastern road, it was naturally defended by a series of ridges which split the road up. These were known as the gaps, named after the famous Cadian generals Aust, Gallus, and Piscator. It was the shortest route from Army’s Meadow and proved to be a laborious journey even for mounted troops. Another option was to proceed along the northern coastal and supply route, hugging the valleys at the base of the mountain range, and then loop around the top and go south. While generally flatter, this was a much longer route that still ended up taking troops through the gaps. 

Because Army’s Meadow had become a busier sector, Cadian High Command recognized the need for it to have a more direct route to the closest Kasr, that being Kasr Sonnen. Relying on air support was a brittle option, so a joint effort between the Engineer Corps, Labour Corps, and the Adeptus Mechanicus was ordered to make a new route. It took a few months of blasting, tunneling, paving, and fortifying, but eventually the eastern main route and the complementing auxiliary paths. This route halved the journey from Army’s Meadow to Kasr Sonnen and facilitated more troop movements and supply convoys in the region. Mimicking the jagged roadways within a Kasr, it was defended by extensive bunker networks and automated defenses. More artillery and anti-air defenses were installed as well. Two regiments from the Interior Guard garrisoned the road. 

Hyram tapped the spot where the northern and eastern roads merged. It was dubbed the Murga Junction, after their deceased company commander who gave up his life during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. “They’re concentrating their efforts here. The heretics are planning something. I just know it.”

“Where did you get all this?” Marsh asked, jerking his thumb towards the moderate stack of paperwork. 

“Captain Giles is still very much an intelligence officer and has his connection within surrounding units,” Hyram replied. “I’ve worked with such officers before I assure you they have more contact outside a regiment than you might imagine.”

After Murga’s death, Captain Giles took command of the First Company instead of resuming his duties as the Regimental Intelligence Officer. He hand-picked his replacement from another unit, ensuring the 1333 rd would have an able officer. With him, he took First Lieutenant Eastoft, who was now First Company’s executive officer. Many were satisfied with the transition of command, especially Bloody Platoon who had served with both Cadians during the fighting on Kasr Fortis. While Giles was somewhat more relaxed than Murga, he was a Cadian through-and-through. 

Hyram sighed, pushed his Data-slate out of the way, and pulled the map closer to him. “We’re not the only ones getting hit. It seemed like every time a unit goes out, they’re ambushed. Probing attacks against the eastern road have occurred just like here on Army’s Meadow. They’ve even spotted heretics attempting to push up the auxiliary roads. Can you believe that, Marsh Silas?”

He reached under the table and pulled out a secure carrier bag. Opening it, he pulled out another map. It portrayed the same geographic region as the first map but there were more Astra Militarum installations noted on this one. All of the tunnel networks, bunker systems, and other fortifications along the Dagger Mountains were revealed. A heavier concentration was at Locket Mountain. “Junior Commissar Carstensen is correct in believing there is a push coming. Colonel Isaev may not believe there’s a push coming, but Cadian High Command certainly does. And according to these reports, they think it’s coming from the east and  _ not _ the west.” He slammed his hand on the table, sending some looser documents on his side into the air. 

“It can’t be that much of o’ buildup, can it?” Marsh asked. “All these ambushes have failed. We’ve musta put a dent in their forces if they’re around so much.”

“Considering that the ambushes are intensifying rather than declining, I believe we’ve only begun to chip at them.” Hyram rested his cheek against his hand and exhaled irritably. “I fear the worst, Marsh Silas. That if the enemy does come, and they certainly shall at this rate, they will attempt to attack Kasr Sonnen from both sides.”

Marsh looked at the maps again. He began to nod. “Aye, and if they’re smart about it they would cut Army’s Meadow off from the mainland so we couldn’t reinforce the Kasr. Shit.” 

“And if they seized the crosswords, then they would prevent reinforcements from coming down from the north.” Hyram pulled the map closed and loomed over it. “Where are they?” he seethed, his fingers tracing patterns along the many ridges, hills, bluffs, and flatlands that made up the hinterland north of Army’s Meadow. Marsh watched for a time as his commanding officer continued to search the map, as if the evidence he was searching for was there somehow. All the while, he continued to mutter to himself. Eventually, Marsh gently clutched the Lieutenant’s hand. But that didn’t make Hyram stop. “There must be some campsite. If neither air nor ground assets have found them, they must be moving—”

“Sir.”

“—but if they’re moving, how could we possibly find them?”

“Sir.”

“There’s just so much ground. Where are they getting their supplies? It must be near the ambush sites!”

“Alright, that’s enough sir,” Marsh said, letting go of Hyram’s wrist and picking up the maps. He folded everything and then tucked them into the leather carrier bag. Then, he collected all the documents and put them inside a pocket of the bag. Strapping it and locking it, he tucked it under the table and turned around. Picking up the tin mug, he forced into Hyram’s hand. “Drink.”

“And the Colonel won’t let me take us out based on my suspicions.”

“ _ Drink _ .”

Reluctantly, Hyram took a long sip. Leaning back in the chair, he ran his hand through his hair until it became a wild mess. Groaning, he took another drink, sighed, and sank in the chair. 

“I’ve got to figure it out otherwise a lot of good Cadians might get killed.”

“Well, methinks ol’ Cadia will still be standing on the morrow, so why don’t rest while we can?”

He expected that would elicit a chuckle or at least a chuckle. Instead, Hyram planted his hand over his face, draped his head back over the backrest of the chair, and groaned very loudly. “What? 

Hyram spread his fingers and looked at Marsh Silas between his middle and ring fingers. 

“I just remembered the Whiteshields are coming tomorrow. Just what we need, fresh troops.” Hyram lowered his hand, shook his head, and sat back up. Leaning forward, he held the tin mug with both hands. The stream continued to rise, coursing around his cheeks. In a moment, he seemed more exhausted than he already was. Marsh standing further in his room, leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. He was careful that his elbow wouldn’t knock over any of the framed pict-captures of his commanding officer’s family. For a moment he glanced at them and smiled fondly. Nobody else possessed any pict-captures and the regimental pict-capturer, Valens, was forbidden to share them. According to him, once they were developed the picts were then sent to Cadian High Command for various uses. Although Marsh couldn’t quite place it, the sight of Hyram’s picts made him more cheerful. 

Hyram set the mug down on the table, catching Marsh’s attention. The platoon leader vigorously rubbed his temples. 

“Worry not, sir. I assure you, Cadian Whiteshields aren’t hapless soldiers. We spend our lives learning to be Guardsmen so they’ll already be decent marksmen. And they’ll be itching to earn their place, so they’ll be highly motivated. We veterans are wiser...well, somewhat, if you talk to some o’ those blokes out there you might think otherwise. But it’s because we’re wiser we tend not to be so fiery. But maybe we could make good use of the young ones’ fire.”

The Lieutenant looked up, his eyes fatigued and depressed. 

“They’ll be but children. And it is because of that their bravery will verge on foolishness. They do not know of life’s accidents.”

It was not so much the words themselves as it was Hyram’s morose tone. He was an incredibly articulate, well-thought man, and compared to his old-self, he was highly motivated. But it was the smiling face of his young son and that of his beautiful wife in the pict-captures beside Marsh’s elbows, that brought about his weaknesses. After giving the pictures a backward glance, Marsh went over to his friend and knelt in front of him. For a moment, he made no expression as his platoon leader gazed at him. Then, he smiled a little. 

“You know, I think some folks in this life are meant to be parents. My mama and papa, they loved me so, but I doubt they were meant to become a family. Like them, mine is a soldier’s life. I suppose one day, Cadia will have to issue me a wife.” This made him chuckle and Hyram, who at first tried to resist, broke into a smile as well. Reaching up, he grasped the junior officer by his shoulder. “The Emperor saw it fit to make you the rare man who has that kind of love in your heart. Your heart o’ hearts, like Junior Commissar Carstensen is fond o’ sayin’. One day, when yer demobilized, you’ll be goin’ back to that family o’ yours. But right now, you’re Shock Trooper, a regular ol’ gunman. That’s what Bloody Platoon needs you to be and what these Whiteshields need.”

For a time, they stayed that way: Hyram hunched in his chair and Marsh kneeling before him. Then, the Lieutenant laughed, much to Marsh’s surprise. He stood up and Marsh joined him. Patting Marsh on the shoulder, he smiled handsomely at him. 

“You’re a true tonic, my friend,” he said. “I know not if they need me, but I’ll tell you what those Whiteshields will get:  _ Marsh Silas _ .”

***

The next day, the 1333 rd Cadian Regiment stood in their morning formation. After finishing the roll call and the Regimental morning prayer, the convoy conveying their new additions arrived right on schedule. The Chimeras rolled into a line formation on the widest area of the parade grounds, turned one hundred eighty degrees, and dropped their ramps. This was the cue for dozens of platoon sergeant, including Marsh Silas, to storm forward and start screaming at them. He was visibly excited as he rarely got to act that way with disciplined troops.

“Line up right now you scrawny bootlicks!”

“Move it, you dogs or else you’ll get a lickin’!”

“How the fuck are you expected to charge the enemy if you move that slow!?”

“Two lines, right here, right  _ now _ , or you’ll be getting the boot!”

“Not fast enough! Shall we fire upon your feet to make you move!?”  
The NCOs plowed through the crowd of Whiteshields, pushing, shoving, sometimes dragging them, tripping them, throwing their massive shoulder bags on the ground and making them pick it back up. Stomping around, they screamed right in their faces, hurling insults, and knocking their soft-cover caps off. Marsh grabbed one young man by the back of his collar when he began walking in the wrong direction and threw him on the ground, sending him skidding across the snowy pavement. One he already ordered to lift his heavy bag over his head dropped it. Storming over, grabbed him by his winter coat’s collar, jostled him heavily, shoved him, grabbed him before he stumbled, stood him up, and then ordered him to pick his bag back up. All around them, the veterans smiled and did their best not to laugh. Some of their expressions were sweet, as the memories of their time as Whiteshields were pleasant now despite such treatment and terrible battles. 

The Whiteshield Sergeants who were with them were not spared. Each one had a document showing who was in which squad as well as the platoon they were to be assigned to. These manifests were promptly seized by the veteran NCOs, some of whom had to go by the pictorial supplements as they couldn’t read the text, and began to purposefully organize them into the wrong unit. Just when the Whiteshields thought it was over, the veterans blamed them for the mistake and the confusion began again. 

Passing another one, he tugged on the short braid her hair was in, forcing her to stop, and then shoved her into another line. Another bumbling Whiteshield came by and he went out of his way to trip him. “Get back into  _ that  _ line! You must have Grox shit instead of a brain!” Wheeling around, he got right in the face of third Whiteshield. “If you’re the best that Cadia has got to offer, I’m finding myself another Fortress World to serve on. You’d like that, wouldn’t ya you fucking meatsack! By the Throne, you insult the Emperor just by drawing breath! Oh, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we!? What the hell’s your name, anyways!?”

“It’s—”

“I just remembered I don’t give a shit!” Marsh hollered. “Move it or I’ll thump ya!” Glancing over at Bloody Platoon, he saw the faces of his friends. Each one was perfectly delighted. Hyram was amused and did his best not to show it. Carstensen was openly smiling and that made Marsh work even harder.

But it was over all too soon. Soon, the Whiteshields were organized into cohorts of ten soldiers each and were made to stand in two lines of five. A perfect meter of space separated each squad. Each of the veterans found the group assigned to their platoon and stood in front of them at attention. A tense silence dawned over the entire 1333 rd as Colonel Isaev, Commissar Ghent, and a menacing staff of officers approached. Folding his hands behind his back, he puffed out his chest and raised his chin so he was looking down at them past his gnarled nose. Everyone, including the more experienced men in front of the new arrivals, saluted.

“My name is Colonel Isaev. Beside me is Regimental Commissar Ghent. Cadian High Command has seen it fit to send you here. Forget what you might have heard. This is by no means a quiet, cushy sector. Out here, you’ll be patrolling, training, and be ever vigilant in your hunt for the heretic, the cultist, the mutant, and the xeno. Failure in this duty will be cause for visitation from Commissar Ghent.” 

He began pacing up and down the line. “Failure to uphold the tenets of the Imperial Creed, failure to obey an order, failure to make the Sign of the Aquila in front of appropriate idols, shrines, officials, and the like shall also result in such a visitation. All of this you are certainly aware of or, by the Emperor, I hope so. I remind you for you are young yet. I can see a light in your eyes that you want to fight. That is good. The greatest service we could ever perform for the Imperium is dying for our cause.”

He stopped at the center of the line and surveyed them. “You shall now be assigned to your platoons. Obey your NCOs and officers to the letter, prove that you are worth the wargear you have been supplied with, and maybe one day you will have earned the right to call yourself Shock Troopers. You have a long four years ahead of you. Dismissed.”

The entire 1333 rd Regiment dispersed. Isaev and his staff returned to Regimental Headquarters and the bulk of the assembled veterans drifted back to their barracks. Some found out of the way locations among crates or the parked Chimeras, lit their lho-sticks, and began watching. Marsh Silas waited for Hyram and Carstensen to come over before he addressed them. Maintaining an impressive stance, the Lieutenant mimicked the Colonel's posture save for the condescending stare down his nose. 

“At ease. I’m Lieutenant Sean Randolph Hyram. This is Junior Commissar Carstensen and this is your new platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Marsh Silas. You are now a part of First Platoon, First Company, the most distinguished element within the 1333 rd Regiment.”

We have the wounds and the medals to prove it, too,” Marsh added, wearing a kind grin. Carstensen nodded in agreement while Hyram closed his eyes, inhaled sharply, shook his head, and then looked back at the Whiteshields. “In garrison, we maintain a constant state of readiness. You are never to be without some manner of armament on your person or within your reach. If it is not, you are expected to be able to reach and don your wargear within a minute. Your M36 will  _ always  _ be loaded. Your bayonets and trench knives shall  _ always  _ be sharp.” 

Many similar conversations were taking place up and down the line. Each of the fourteen-year old Whiteshields, having calmed down from the excitement from earlier, listened diligently. Once each of the officers finished their lecture they began reading the names from the manifest. Marsh Silas took a small amount of pride in being able to read the list himself. 

The first name called out belonged to the Whiteshield Sergeant, Clivvy. She was a stout, muscular young woman who kept her hair short instead of in a burn or braid like the two other women in the squad. Out of all the blonde heads in the squad, hers verged on a redder shade. Marsh was instantly impressed by her steadfast tone as she answered, ‘sir,’ when he called her name. He surmised she took the duty of a Whiteshield Sergeant seriously. Then there was Graeme, the shortest of the Whiteshields. Pale and slender, he stood on the tips of his toes in an attempt to exaggerate his height. Leander came next, a slender but ultimately strong looking fellow. His lips formed a natural smile and he had a curious gaze to his bright violet eyes. Merton was broad-chested and strong his arms, but despite his heavy uniform Marsh could see his legs were on the thinner side. The lad was buck toothed but he seemed to be serious enough. Rayden did not seem to possess the quiet excitement or the stoic professionalism of the others. He seemed more brooding, but the moment Marsh walked in front of him he tried to stand straighter than he already was. Complementing the dark shade of his violet eyes was his very dark blonde hair. 

In the second line was Rowley. She was slimmer than Clivvy and had a field of freckles across her cheeks. Although her blonde hair was drawn into a tight knot, a few locks fell over her brow and when Marsh walked by her she tried to blow them to the side. She seemed kind and energetic, the latter impressing the platoon sergeant. Soames came next and he was a cocky looking one. He wore his hat to one side of his head and kept it tipped up slightly. The expression on his square face was one of pure confidence. Tattersall was after him and he did his best not to appear timid. There was nothing truly remarkable about him other than his comely gaze and the jagged scar on the left side of his face. Webley was the tallest and although not skinny, she was not robust in her stature either. She instinctively saluted when Marsh walked in front of her and that assured him she was eager to make a good impression. Lastly, there was Yeardley, who wore spectacles like the ones Hyram sometimes wore. His nose was running from the cold air.

“Going to do something about that?” Marsh asked, pointing at his nose with the field-quill. 

“Sir, yes, sir!” Yeardley raised his arm as if he was a machine and then wiped his nose on his forearm. When he finished, there was a dark stain on his sleeve and the snot had spread over his lips. “Sir, I think I made it worse, sir!” Marsh’s lips twitched into a smile. Upon seeing that, Yeardley smiled too. He was especially youthful and spry, with a particular boyish roundness to his face. While the others were clearly shaving, there was one hint of stubble on his cheeks. For some reason, Marsh already liked the lad. 

After handing the manifest over, Hyram studied it for a few moments. Then, he slipped into his document carrier bag and they led the detachment back to the barracks. After a brief tour of the trenchworks and the central bunker, they descended into Bloody Platoon’s home. Most of the men were already there and Marsh could tell they had arrayed themselves to some degree to make an impression on the rookies. Logue and Foley were hunched over the communal table, each tinkering with an autopistol. Babcock, standing with his shirt off and a khaki neck cover on, tossed a combat knife from one hand to the other and then quickly threw it toward the Whiteshields. All of the newcomers flinched as the knife embedded into the wooden trim of the entrance. 

They walked by more entrances to the other comb-like rooms. Drummer Boy popped out holding two tin mugs filled with recaf. He stopped the detachment. 

“Fresh brew for fresh faces,” he chimed. Rowley was closest; after taking a glance at her comrades, she gingerly reached out for it. Sneering, Drummer Boy upended the mug and the contents splashed onto her new boots. Gasping, Rowley stepped back and then scowled at him. The Voxman laughed and then looked at Yeardley. “Here, I shan’t do the same to you. Welcome to Bloody Platoon.”

Yeardley cautiously took the mug, nearly bouncing on his feet to dart away in case Drummer Boy pulled the same trick. Instead, the mug was handed over without incident. Smiling at Marsh Silas, Yeardley took such a big gulp that his cheeks puffed out slightly. Then his eyes bulged and he spit the recaf onto the floor. This made Drummer Boy chortle loudly and slap his knee. Yeardley dropped the mug and spit several more times.

“Was there  _ piss  _ in that!?”

“Mighta done.”

“You said you wouldn’t do anything to me!”

“That’s where yer wrong, boy, I said I wouldn’t do the  _ same _ to you.” Drummer Boy departed then. When they began to pass the next barracks room, the Walmsley brothers came out. Respectfully standing aside for Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, and Marsh Silas, they then barged right into the Whiteshields. Shouldering, biffing, and pushing their way through, they ended up knocking over a number of their olive drab Militarum-issue travel bags. Graeme, Merton, and even Clivvy were shunted aside so hard they were forced momentarily against the walls. After the two brothers passed by, the Whiteshields began to pick themselves up. Just as they had, Sergeant Stainthorpe and Arnold Yoxall came out and repeated the tormenting, all the while having an unconcerned conversation over the concept of the Meltagun. This act was repeated a third time when Tatum, Foster, and Fleming stepped out and went out of their way to knock the newcomers over.

“Now, now,” Marsh Silas began when he noticed their riled expressions. “You ought to have been expecting somethin’ like this. They’re a merry bunch, to be sure.” 

They ended up in the area right outside Hyram’s dwelling. Marsh Silas ordered them to throw their bags onto the ground. Confused, the fresh troopers looked around. Finally, Clivvy stepped forward. 

“Are we to cut our bunks into the walls above your own? We shall require ladders, then.”

“Absolutely not,” Marsh Silas replied with a generous smile. “You be digging a new section of the barracks. For now, you’ll be sleepin’ on the floor where’s I can see ya. Get them kits out.”

The Whiteshields, tested in everything but battle, swiftly set up their quarters. To minimize the amount of room they took up, Clivvy ordered them to split into pairs and hug certain sections of the wall. In a matter of minutes, their sleeping bags were neatly placed and their wargear arrayed immaculately. 

Nodding, Marsh began putting on his Flak Armour. When the Whiteshields looked at him in confusion again, he nodded at their armour pieces on the floor. “Get’em on.”

“What for?” Merton asked, clearly put out with his treatment so far. Marsh put on his helmet, picked up his loaded rucksack, swung it over his shoulders, and then picked up his M36. He smiled at them. “Training begins now.”

When they reached the surface again, the Whiteshields were in full kit. Marsh Silas led them back down the hill and onto the parade grounds. Many other platoon sergeants had taken their complement of Whiteshields to the firing range and were evaluating their marksmanship. Others were practicing with mock grenades or going through bayonet drills. A few, waiting for their turn to see what their fresh troops could do, circled them up and began lecturing them over certain pieces of wargear. Instead of leading them towards the training grounds, Marsh continued going to the main gate.

“Staff Sergeant, aren’t we going to the range?” Clivvy asked, pushing her helmet up slightly as it was sagging low over her brow. 

“Later. For now, I want to see what yer  _ really  _ made of and there ain’t no better way of finding out then a good run. Up and down the entire cape ought to do it.” He could hear them grumble and that was to be expected. Cadians enjoyed marching, at least those who survived to become Shock Troopers. Less found enjoyment from heavily-laden physical exercise. Turning and walking backwards, he observed the Whiteshields. Their uniforms and wargear were all fresh and clearly just given to them on a whim. Uniforms were either too big and baggy or too small and tight on the wrong body region. Webbing couldn’t be properly secured, belts, clips, and buckles would catch, and more than one helmet slipped down over their eyes. 

Seeing it all again brought Marsh Silas back to his youth and he laughed. “Somethin’ wrong there?” he asked Tattersall. His helmet fell over his eyes again and he pushed it back up.

“Staff Sergeant, this helmet is too big.”

“No, it ain’t.”

“But Sergeant—”

“Now there ain’t nothing wrong with that helmet,” Marsh said, pointing at him. “Ain’t too big, your head is too small.” Looking over his shoulder to make sure he wouldn’t walk into anything, he soon spotted a pile of rocks. He grinned. “And seein’ as how we had to take out your sleeping bags, you ain’t exactly at full kit. Load up one of them rocks into the bag, that ought to do the trick!”

All the Whiteshields groaned apprehensively. Marsh Silas just laughed.


	5. Chapter 5

Marsh Silas was not sure if the Whiteshields hated him or loved him. From dawn to dusk, he had them working. He woke them up before roll call to take them on a run up and down the entire peninsula. Each time, they were in full wargear. When they returned to the base, huffing and puffing under their combat loads, they were just in time for the roll. After the entire platoon stood-to in their trenchworks, they sat down for breakfast. Marsh afforded the newcomers only five minutes to scarf down their meals before putting them to work inside the barracks. He set them to the task of digging out the new area for their quarters. With Yoxall and Stainthorpe, both combat engineers in their own right, supervising the construction, the platoon sergeant led the fresh troopers in song as their Type 9-70 entrenchment tools scraped against the brown earth. For three hours they worked in shifts of five, standing shoulder to shoulder as they attacked the soil. By the time they were finished, they were stripped down to their undergarments and bare chests, their skin slick with sweat and covered in a layer of dirt. 

When the allotted time was up, Marsh Silas gave them twenty minutes of rest and five minutes to clean up. Then it was time for another rull in full wargear, this time making two laps of the entire peninsula from their trenchworks on the cliff, down through the base, out the gate, and all the way to Mason Bridge, and back again. Again, they returned to the camp red in their faces and out of breath. From there, they went to the firing range where they practiced with various weapons from their basic M36 Kantrael pattern lasguns and autopistols to Heavy Bolters. After their time on the range was up, they practiced lobbing dummy grenades at targets dispersed at different distances. 

Bayonet training was next on the list. Fixing up targets tied to posts, he instructed them on posture, poise, and aggressiveness, as well as the best spots and ways to strike. He took great delight in watching the young ones scream at the top of their lungs as they charged the cylindrical bags stuffed with various fibers. Many bore hundreds of marks from previous practice thrusts. The platoon sergeant worked with them individually at first, adjusting how they held their weapons, how to place their feet, and what kind of war face to wear to terrify their foes. Then, they worked as a group, performing mock bayonet charges at the targets. 

Hand to hand combat training was next and Marsh drew on a number of volunteers from Bloody Platoon for assistance. Here, the veterans also derived a great deal of pleasure from knocking, tripping, grappling, and otherwise pummeling the new recruits onto the ground. Marsh merely observed during this portion, providing input when a particular Whiteshield was struggling. Each of the volunteers provided them with enough instruction regarding wielding a combat knife or other melee weapon. 

Once they finished their hand to hand combat drills, they rested for about half an hour and took their afternoon meal. Afterwards, Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen got involved. The former gave them advanced lessons in various leadership capacities, walking them through the usage of items such as the Data-slate, Vox-caster, and hard copy maps. While they already had a basic understanding of land navigation, Hyram enhanced their knowledge by studying topography, local routes which offered safer travel, how to interpret various elements on the map for more information, and how to utilize the map and the Data-slate overview as a single entity rather than separate tools. Of course, he was also teaching them to read and write. Many other members of Bloody Platoon joined the lecture for this portion. Hyram seemed to be making it his mission to impart his ‘letter lessons,’ as he took to calling them onto the men. Some were more enthusiastic for it, like Drummer Boy, Queshire, and the Walmsley brothers, while others, like Babcock, were not quite as enthralled. ‘I be killing heretics,’ he said, ‘I ain’t going ta do it with letters, sir!’ Meanwhile, Carstensen educated them in their faith. As if she was most pious priestess, she educated them in their daily rituals of prayer, how to apply the various oils and ointments to their weapons, at what times of the day during their watch shifts could they pray, and tested their knowledge by flashing cards bearing symbols they were to always salute and others that did not require such action. 

She was a very different kind of teacher than Hyram. As always, he took on the role of the father, speaking in soft, gentle, but informative tones. He was quick to smile and earnest in his laughter, allowing the Whiteshields to speak up now and again. When he engaged them with a question, he was very encouraging and did not admonish them for answering incorrectly. In fact, they seemed to rather excel at his lessons and took to them rather quickly. On the other hand, Carstensen played the part of the Commissar very well. She was not harsh but definitely firm to a point that concerned Marsh Silas. The veteran Cadians of Bloody Platoon not only respected her, but they liked and admired her. Their relationship to her was solidified by the fires of war, the proximity of their cramped quarters and tent-to-tent living in the field, and the necessity of relying on one another for survival. These Whiteshields did not have the same introduction to her and he worried that they would eventually not see her more than anything than the black and crimson uniform she wore. Bloody Platoon was a successful unit because of its cohesion and trust; if they didn’t trust her that could quickly lead to problems in the field. 

He was comforted only by Carstensen’s refusal to be outwardly or overly harsh on the young ones. When they made a mistake, she ensured they understood that but did not admonish them to any lasting degree. As for the Whiteshields, they took it in stride having been around far more brutal instructors, officers, NCOs, and of course, Commissars their entire lives. But their true feelings remained dormant and unknown to the platoon sergeant. 

Once their lectures were over, Marsh led them back out into the camp for more weapon drills and instruction. These lessons were imbued with more finger points in the care for their wargear and again, the veterans of Bloody Platoon played a vital role by imparting their collective decades of experience onto the Whiteshields. Certain aspects of their equipment were noted for being quite useless and it was better to go on operations without them. Different configurations for their webbing, bandoleers, cartridge belt pouches, grenades, scabbards, and sidearms were discussed in relation to different missions. How to keep equipment from making noise during a silent march was a vital lesson the veterans went over many, many times. 

As the sun began to set, Marsh Silas loaded his trainees up and ran them up and down Army’s Meadow for a third time. This time, they would complete three laps and upon the final one, he ordered the Whiteshields to race one another. Also being a participant of the race, he would keep pace with the fastest of the lot which tended to be Yeardley and Rowley, but during the final burst would beat them both. All the Whiteshields voiced their displeasure at having lost again. Marsh Silas was glad that they did not view Rowley and Yeardley as separate individuals but rather representatives of the entire squad. If they one, the victory would be everyone’s. When they lost, they cheered their comrades on for a good show and assured them they would soon overcome their platoon sergeant. By giving them someone to compete against as a group, Marsh Silas knew their bonds would only tighten in the days to come. Forcing them to compete against one another risked fraying those affections.

Again, they broke for the evening meal which they scarfed down intensely. But the training was not over yet. Marsh Silas would order them into their wargear again and take them into the flower fields. Here, they honed their skills as light infantry; moving slowly, methodically, and aggressively through the flowers. Together, they practiced maneuvers and combat patrolling, hand signals, and moving without any running lights. Despite the physical demands of their training, this proved to be one of the most challenging aspects of their daily regime. The 1333 ed was at its heart an infantry regiment and only possessed light and support vehicles. Their artillery and armoured support was limited to attachments from other regiments and to those survivors from battered units they absorbed over the years. In such a regiment, Guardsmen needed to be advanced in infantry tactics and skills as they were not dependent on the heavy support more robust regiments were capable of. Any dereliction of duty or mistake was swiftly discovered for Marsh Silas possessed a keen eye in these affairs. Here, he made himself firm, the only time during the entire training day he was so. But he was careful to impart this was not because he was angry at them, that he wanted them to be Guardsmen not only capable of completing their mission but also surviving it. 

When the small unit tactics portion of their training was over, they returned to camp and once again worked in shifts of five constructing their new quarters. They would spend the balance of the remaining hours on this task until the majority of the base was ordered to stand down and rest. Marsh Silas finally permitted the Whiteshields to vacate the barracks, breathe in some of the cool night air, and wash in the communal showers down by the Medicae center. By the time the Whiteshields returned to their sleeping bags, they could not so much walk as they could shuffle along. Marsh Silas would congratulate them on completing another day of hard work. Most didn’t hear it as the moment their heads touched the ground they fell asleep. The entire squad of newcomers slept so soundly and deeply he worried each night they would not be able to go through it again. But much to his amazement, they were bright and chipper in the morning. Not only were they prepared for the training, they were eager for it. Perhaps not so much eager as begrudgingly accepting of the taxing runs up and down the peninsula, however. 

It was because of their spirit each morning he wondered if they despised him or not. Any clique of untested troops tended to dislike those who were hard on them. Back when he was a Whiteshield, he and his comrades were hateful of their instructors and their barbaric punishments. They learned more from the veterans and survivors rather than the NCOs and other personnel assigned to be their teachers. At most, the relationship evolved to a grudging respect rather than any kind of kinship. He wanted to be better than those instructors even if he couldn’t match Hyram’s fatherly attribute or the rigid instruction of Carstensen. At most, he strived to create for himself something in between so that he could balance them out for the young ones. 

One day, not quite two weeks later, Marsh Silas organized the first work shift of the Whiteshields. Clivvy, as usual, volunteered. Yeardley, Rowley, Graeme, and Tattersall made up the rest. Each one wore their khaki fatigue trousers and black boots as well as a standard issue tank top. Marsh Silas, on the other hand, was shirtless as the heat of the underground barracks was already getting to him. His well-built upper body, rippling with well-defined muscle, was already covered in a sheen of sweat. An olive drab bandana was wrapped around his head, keeping his blonde locks from matting to his forehead. 

“Come on now, Whiteshields,” he encouraged. “Hard work is good work, and good work is hard work.” Besides the running, it seemed this task the Whiteshields found distasteful as well. By the time they were done, everyone had to wear a cloth over their mouths because of all the dust. The work was difficult because all they had available were the Type 9-70 tools which were good for digging but not so much for breaking through thick soil. Since their arrival, the sappers and engineers attached to the regiment were using their stock of pickaxes to extend the perimeter and create foundations for new installations. Infantry platoons were ordered to give up the vast majority of their tools. However, today was going to be different or at least Marsh Silas hoped it would be. With the work along the perimeter drawing a close Bloody Platoon was able to get their tools back. Cutting into the wall would be a far simpler and quicker task with the right instruments. 

Marsh spit into hands and then rubbed some of the loose brown soil onto his palms. Standing on the left end of their work party, he decided to sing a work cadence. These were of a different pace than the marching songs Bloody Platoon was used. Work songs were faster, more repetitive, and required the men to tap out a beat or rhythm. So Marsh instructed them on how to do it, for they were only used to the typical Cadian marching tunes taught during their formative years. “Take the sharp end and cut a scratch into the wall like so. Yes, that’s the way to do it. Now, begin tapping into that cut with the edge like I’m doing now.” Marsh demonstrated, tapping a quick tempo. “Do so  _ together  _ on my mark...mark! Yes, that’s the way. Good show! Now I shall sing a verse and then we begin. Match my pace, now. Are you ready?”

“We’re ready, Marsh Silas!” the five Whiteshields declared, picking up on Bloody Platoon’s enthusiastic response to the question. Marsh joined their quick tempo and soon there was a rhythmic, scratchy, tapping into the dirt. And then he began to sing:

_ “Ohhhhh-woahhhh....ohhhhhh-whoa! _

_ Ain’t been to Terra but I been told, _

_ the streets is gold _

_ and the Emperor glows, _

_ work on down-a line, _

_ work on down-a line, _

_ work on down a liiiiine!!” _

Marsh swung his pickaxe and the others copied him. Soon they began digging quickly into the walls, all the while he continued to repeat the final lines:

“ _ Work on down-a line, _

_ Work on down-a line,  _

_ Work on down-a liiiiine! _ ”

Soon, Marsh and his five trainees disappeared into a cloud of brown dust. Clivvy, Yeardley, Rowley, Graeme, and Tattersall, picking up the lyrics, joined in quickly. Behind them, to keep up the beat, the other five began clapping out the rhythm. Broken soil fell at the diggers’ feet, piling up and up. The second team quit clapping and soon began filling up sandbags with the soil which were then passed along a lazy line of veterans. It ran all the way to the barracks ladder where a convenient, scratch-made pulley system, devised by Yoxall, Stainthorpe, and Hitch, quickly winched up the sandbag and then it was passed off to another line of men. Cadian Guardsmen were practical fellows who did not let anything, even soil, go to waste.

When he finally ordered them to stop so the shifts could rotate, a dirty, dusty, sweating Marsh Silas was confronted by the sight of his platoon leader. Hyram was leaning against a timber puffing on the platoon sergeant’s pipe. If any other man had done so, Marsh would have thumped them over their head. But he respected Hyram and considered him to be a friend, and friends had a license to smoke his pipe without authorization. 

Walking over, he took the pipe from Hyram and took a few puffs on it as well. He pointed it at the work crew behind him. “Good workers, ain’t they, sir?”

“Indeed. Staff Sergeant, might I have a word with you in my quarters?”

“Right away, sir. Clivvy, keep’em working. No slacking.”

While Clivvy began singing to keep the next shift working fast, Marsh followed Hyram through the tunnels and rooms of the barracks until they were behind the curtain of his room. The platoon leader sat down at his desk with a field quill and parchment. Before he took up the quill, he pushed over a tin mug full of water to Marsh. The platoon sergeant nodded his thanks, took a small swig, swished, and spit onto a pot on the floor. Then he took a greedy drink and sighed happily. 

“What do you make of these Whiteshields?” he asked, picking up the quill and lowering it over the parchment. “Spare not a single detail, Silas. I must evaluate them before we next tramp through the hinterland.”

Marsh obeyed. All of them were very good shots. It was a simple thing to say but it was actually high praise among Cadians. Advanced marksmanship was highly common among the Cadian population so it was hardly noteworthy when someone proved on the firing range they were a decent shooter. Snipers tended to be the only ones to receive high praise because their skills were so proficient they qualified for the unique training to handle a weapon as powerful and articulate as the Long-Las. But they stood out among the other Whiteshields and walked away from the range with the highest scores. As for grenades, they were decent, bayonets, passable, and for hand to hand combat, there was much room for improvement. 

As to their characters, they were all hard workers. Even Rayden, whom Marsh Silas believed to be a laggard upon setting eyes upon, proved to be diligent. Out of all of them, it was their sergeant who seemed very promising. Cliffy was reliable, dedicated, and took her stripes very seriously. She sought to cement her place not only as their squad leader but as a member of Bloody Platoon. Responsible and trustworthy, she was already being relied upon by Marsh Silas as a second in the training process. Rowley seemed very interested in the Vox-caster and was working very hard with the Voxmen in the platoon to learn their trade. Already, she memorized the majority of the codes, clearances, and stations throughout the regiment. Marsh and Hyram agreed she would be the Whiteshields’ Vox-caster. Leander, Merton, and Tattersall were solid team members. Tattersall proved to be tight-lipped but a hard worker. Leander was naturally curious and absorbed everything very quickly. Some members of Bloody Platoon found him annoying as he pestered them with questions about nearly every aspect of a soldier’s life, but they gave him all the information he asked for. Hyram already appreciated his studious nature. Merton was reliable but Tattersall needed to open more. 

Soames was confident, perhaps too confident, but that could be reigned in. Marsh wanted them to be capable and brave, but not stupid. Out of all of them, Soames was inclined to making those kinds of decisions. The Whiteshields were extremely zealous and itching to get in the field, but Soames was boastful. That could be bad for morale. Webley was a fine shot and reliable; Clivvy seemed to rely on her as her number two. She was a flexible soldier, disciplined, knowledgeable, and took to small unit tactics very well. Her one fault was her height; she was slow and surprisingly uncoordinated. On more than one occasion, Marsh saw her trip over nothing but her own two feet. Once, she even stumbled while practicing a bayonet charge. Her squad mates were very supportive but it wasn’t enough. Remedial training was going to be required. Still, she was strong and very much a rock. Out of the Whiteshields she was the hardest throw to the ground or grapple with. If she ever got into a hand to hand scenario, she would have a distinct advantage. 

Graeme and Yeardley were both short fellows and not the strongest, but they were dedicated chaps. The former was keen to make an impression and was constantly going out of his way to endeavor. It was hard not to appreciate his spirit. On the other hand, Yeardley too wanted to make a good show but he was quite effortless in this regard. The young man was proving to be the heart of the squad as he was quite charming and made everyone, including the brooding Rayden, smile and laugh with his antics. He presented himself as uncoordinated and easily tripped, bouncing off walls and floors as if he was made of rubber. This made not only his friends chortle but the old hands of Bloody Platoon as well. 

“You should see the boy,” Marsh chuckled, leaning back on the stool. “I say, even our Drummer Boy can’t elicit such laughter.”

“Focus, Silas.”

“Yes sir, sorry sir. Well, they’re both short, small lads. They can carry their wargear but they need to build up their weight. I’ll get to work on that.”

“See to it quickly. They need to be strong enough to carry a wound comrade. If they can’t do that, I don’t want them in this platoon.”

It was a ruthless statement made all the more cutthroat by the quiet, gentle tone he said it in. Marsh was taken aback for a few moments and blinked at his commanding officer. He regained his composure. 

“Indeed sir, but it’s not like we can just send’em back from whence they came.”

“I’m aware. I’ve spoken to Captain Giles. We both agree that Bloody Platoon, being the First Platoon of the First Company, must have at its disposal the best men for the job. If we have laggards in our midst, they shall be transferred to another platoon.”

“You would split them from their friends?”

Hyram was busily writing but at that comment his hand froze. Taking off his spectacles, he scratched the side of his trim blonde hair with his free hand and set the quill down with the other. Folding them together, he turned to face Marsh and rested his hands on the edge of the table. Pursing his lips, he appeared thoughtful but also grim. Eventually, he opened his mouth and sighed.

“You like these young men and women, do you not?”

Whether or not they disliked him, Marsh Silas could not deny he was growing very fond of them. They were but lads and lasses of fourteen. Among them, Yeardley was the youngest, just having struck the number. All were fresh, youthful, enthusiastic, energetic, hard working, and they tried their best and more in everything they did. When he looked upon them, he could not help and remember his days with Overton and their good friend Clement coming up in Kasr Polaris. While he counted all the men and women of their Whiteshield squad comrades, those two were his friends. Only he and Overton survived among many others from the 540 th Youth Corps and more than a few were in Bloody Platoon and in the 1333 rd Regiment. Those days on the training grounds, tending their M36 lasguns in a big circle, catching fish and what few land animals were on the Caducades Sea Isles during the Month of Making, and reuniting after he arrived on Cadia from Macharia. Those were good days, when Guardsmen seemed invincible. Experiencing it all again brought great cheer to his heart and he hoped all ten of the Whiteshields would soon form a squad of their own right. It did not seem necessary to wait all four years to remove those white stripes. 

Marsh Silas smiled earnestly and nodded. That made Hyram smile. “Well, I am certainly glad they meet your approval. But we must not forget we are at war and you are charged with making soldiers of them. Cadians they may be but they are wet behind their ears still, and young yet. Tis a disadvantage towards our efficiency and survival as a platoon. Make sure they are up to the task or I shall split them.”

He did not speak unkindly but it was very firm. In a way, Marsh Silas was proud of Hyram at this moment. Over the months, he not only developed the courage to lead men into battle, earned the respect of the veterans, and his studious nature lent to a superior understanding of tactics. But an officer needed an edge, an uncanny ability to not only be loved by his men but also be obeyed. Officers need that ruthlessness or else their commands would never be obeyed. It was the sad state of leadership that brave, courageous men needed to be sent into do hellish things and often do so with their lives. The Whiteshields, Marsh Silas was swiftly reminded, were of no exception. 

The platoon sergeant nodded gravely, indicating he understood. At heart, though, Hyram was a kindly man and offered a small smile. He leaned forward, reached out, and grasped Marsh by his bare shoulder. “Do try and make it as difficult as possible for them so that fighting the foe might seem to be trivial. They will live longer and thank you for it in the end.”

“Indeed, sir,” Marsh said with a grin, splitting his filthy face. Hyram let go and looked at his dust covered hand. Clicking his tongue, he wiped his hand over his knee. 

“Alright then.  _ Get _ . I must prepare for them their letters! Off with ya, man, off with ya!”

Marsh made a show of taking his time and Hyram playfully booted him on the rear end. Cackling, Marsh hurried out to rejoin the Whiteshields and finish their work detail. 

***

After they washed, the Whiteshields prepared for their second run of the day. Everyone was in full gear as they marched towards the front gate. Marsh Silas did not lead this time. Instead, Clivvy was at the front and he was at the rear of their short column. Just as they came to the gate and were about to load their rucksacks with an extra rock, the platoon sergeant felt a hand tap the back of his helmet. He found Drummer Boy standing before him. 

“Marsh Silas, Junior Commissar Carstensen sent for you. She’s at the observation post. It’s urgent.”

“I’ll be there right away!” Marsh replied and took off bounding. He raced up the slope, leaped into the trenches, and weaved his way through the men until he found her. She was standing with her back to the trench and was gazing at Kasr Fortis through a pair of magnoculars. Her orange hair swept back and forth across her shoulders in the sea breeze. Her high-peaked cap sat on the sandbag wall to her right. 

Stepping into the post, Marsh saluted and she returned it. Carstensen regarded him for a moment. She then glanced over her shoulder and saw none of the men were paying attention or were out of earshot.

“Silas, is there something you require of me?”

“Junior Comm...Lilias, Drummer Boy said you sent for me.”

“I did no such thing,” Carstensen said, wrinkling her nose. “Either Drummer Boy has gone soft in his head, in which case I should bring him to Commissar Ghent, or he is playing you for a fool. The Lieutenant forbids from taking action, saying we can afford at least one prankster. But I tell you, Silas, a platoon such as ours should afford no pranksters at all. Are you listening to me?”

Marsh wasn’t, for he was gazing at nothing in particular as he wracked his mind. Just what kind of joke could Drummer Boy be playing now? Then he realized he had no left orders for the Whiteshields, an oversight he could have kicked himself for. He slapped the front of his helmet so hard the sound of the  _ smack  _ made Carstensen look at him sharply. “Are you well, Silas?”

“You’re right, I  _ am  _ a fool!” Marsh cried and took off running. Clambering out of the trenches, he catapulted himself down the hill and back towards the gate. 

_ She called you Silas. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?  _ Barlocke followed it up with a delighted bout of laughter that echoed and bounced off the inside of Marsh’s skull, filling it with warmth. The platoon sergeant just growled. “Now is not the time!” he hissed as he ran.  _ But Silvanus, does that not make you happy?  _ “Very much so but I’m  _ working  _ right now!”  _ Oh lest I interrupt the important business of soldiering, yes indeed. They’ve gone, by the way _ . “What!?”

Marsh slowed to a jog as he approached the gate. All of his Whiteshields were gone. Drummer Boy sat on top of the pile of rocks, cooly smoking a lho-stick. Gritting his teeth, the platoon sergeant put on his meanest face and approached the Voxman. “Just what have you done with my Whiteshields, Drummer Boy!? If you have done wrong by them, then I swear by the God-Emperor I’ll have you digging for old mines with nothing but your mess kit spoon!”

Drummer Boy just laughed. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he offered Marsh a very handsome smile. Perplexed, Marsh just stared at him as he caught his breath.  _ Oh my, why don’t you look down the road?  _

Raising his gaze, he saw some specs coming back down the road towards the camp. As they drew nearer, he realized they were the Whiteshields. But each of them looked peculiar, as if their shoulders had grown two sizes. Walking just out of the perimeter with Drummer Boy, he realized each one had their M36 lasgun across their shoulders. Tied to both the stock and the barrel were haversacks and in each sack was a large rock instead of the usual load of one rock in their rucksack. 

Each one passed by, jogging as fast as they could, sweating and straining under the weight. When they came level with Marsh Silas, they each offered a wink, a smile, and a respectful, ‘Staff Sergeant.’ Yeardley was bringing up the rear. His cheeks were bright red and the heat coming off his brow caused his spectacles to fog over. But he smiled at Marsh all the same. 

“Methinks you have some catching up to do,” he chimed, “but if thou cannot bear the load it’s best if you sit on this one, Platoon Papa!”

The ten Whiteshields tramped up the slope of the barracks, looped around, and began their second lap. Marsh’s lips twisted in a wry smile. Drummer Boy stubbed out his lho-sticks. 

“These would-be gunmen here got somethin’ to prove to ya, Marsh Silas,” he said respectfully, “they ask me to help them do so. I hope my smokescreen did not see your meeting with the Junior Commissar go badly.”

“On the contrary, it went well, or at least something close to well,” Marsh said, his focus on the Whiteshields. After a moment, he shook his head and released a little laugh. “Well that ain’t just gonna cut it! By the Emperor, load me up Drummer Boy!”

Marsh Silas swung his M36 across his shoulder. Laughing, Drummer Boy tied Marsh’s own kit bag to the stock and then his own haversack to the barrel. He hefted a rock into each one and then the platoon sergeant took off as fast as he could. On either side of him, the swaying flower fields were bright yellow blurs. The salty ocean air stung his cheeks and brow. Sweat ran down his temples. Before long, he caught up with the others. It was a difficult run under the weight and his shoulders throbbed intensely. But years at war and in the heavy work of a Guardsman, his body was in its prime. While the others labored, he pressed on. As the troop came to the bridge, each one slapped the waist-high stone column that punctuated the ends of the bridge's guard rails. It was their custom upon completing half of the lap. 

Upon seeing their platoon sergeant catching up easily, they all began to increase their pace. 

“Come on,  _ come on _ , let’s go!” Clivvy cried. “Be you Cadians or be you some back alley Hiver scum impressed into the ranks!? Prove you’re Cadians this day! Onward, onward!”

Everyone began huffing, puffing, groaning, snorting, and panting as they put every ounce of energy they had into their run. Marsh Silas was determined not to let them win. He was going to obey his orders and make life hard for them. That didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself, he was smiling from ear to ear and could not help but laugh at the chase. As he closed in on the gate, victory seemed assured. But the tramping of feet around him seemed louder and very close. Turning, he realized they were around him in a semicircle. Before he could react, Clivvy grinned. “Upon him then!”  
Marsh yelped as nearly every member of the entire squad dropped their M36’s in the dirt with their heavy loads and tackled him. Buried underneath them, Marsh attempted to force his way out, kicking and wriggling as best he could. Reaching out, he tried to drag himself forward. 

“Go Yeardley, go! Now’s yer chance!” Rayden shouted. Marsh looked up from under his helmet, watched young Yeardley dump his load, and began racing for the barracks. Everyone began cheering him on. Unwilling to lose, Marsh took the opportunity of their exaltation to elbow and pry them off. Bursting out, he dropped his rucksack and took off after Yeardley. He covered the ground quickly, pumping his arms and legs so hard he thought the tendons in his ankle would burst.  _ Go, Silvanus, go! Like the wind! Oh, good show!  _ Yeardley was at the bottom of the slope. Above, Bloody Platoon whistled, cheered, and waved at Marsh Silas. Behind them, the Whiteshields encouraged their comrade. 

Putting everything he had into the run, Marsh bounded up the slope and found himself parallel with Yeardley. Grinning, he began to overtake him. Glancing over at the other Kasr Polaris youth, he saw the strain in his temples, how his teeth were set, and how hungry his violet eyes were for victory. In him, Marsh saw himself, younger, eager to prove himself, and become the Shock Trooper he always wanted to be. His heart throbbed with the memories and it swelled. Marsh was almost at the top, Yeardley was right behind. There was a rock in the slope and the platoon sergeant steered towards it. His foot caught, he stumbled, but didn’t fall. Yeardley took the opportunity, surged forward, and cheered as he made it to the top. Below, the Whiteshields erupted into a chorus of ecstatic shouting. Charging up the slope, they crowded around Yeardley, picked him up, and began parading him around. 

Marsh caught his breath and wiped his brow. Yoxall handed him a canteen.

“Good show, Marsh Silas, good show. I guess they’re a bit more promising than we gave them credit for,” the demolition expert stated. “I thought for sure you had’em whipped though.”

Marsh looked over at the Whiteshields who were still celebrating. Barlocke chuckled, the trickling water feeling returned.  _ You let them win, didn’t you _ . Marsh didn’t dignify it was a response, but grinned. As Bloody Platoon began to disperse, they put down Yeardley, stormed towards Marsh Silas, and congratulated him as well. Before he knew it, he was hoisted on their shoulders as well. 

“Marsh Silas, the Platoon Papa!” they cried jovially. “We’ll follow you anywhere!”  
“Oh, put me down, would ya?” Marsh laughed. Once he was on his feet again, he put his hands on Clivvy and Yeardley’s shoulders. “Good work. Even if you did fight dirty. But one day you shall be Shock Troopers and when it comes to battling the foe, you have to fight dirty. Honor is reserved for your comrades and faith for the Emperor. Upon the enemy, unleash your training, your fury, everything you have. No mercy, you understand?”

The Whiteshields pumped their fists into the air and started cheering.

“No mercy! No mercy! No mercy for the foe!”

Marsh Silas beamed with pride. Even as Lieutenant Hyram’s orders rang in his ears, the delighted cries of his pupils began to ring louder.


	6. Chapter 6

Ever since Marsh Silas had taken the Whiteshields under his wing, he took the advice of his commanding officer to devote a session to one specific weapon, item, or duty of the Cadian Shock Troops. This in-depth lecture was to be conducted every other day and always cover something different to keep them sharp. Hyram left this at the platoon sergeant’s discretion and Marsh thought very hard over what to go over. To keep his Whiteshields from becoming complacent, he made sure they would discuss even the most mundane aspects or tools. On this particular morning, four days after Yeardley ‘won,’ the daily footrace, Marsh Silas decided he would go over one of the most useful yet innocuous of a Cadian’s possessions. 

All ten Whiteshields were sitting cross-legged in a semicircle at the top of the hill. Some appeared very reserved in their composure, doing their best to be professional. Others, like Yeardley and Rowley were barely containing their excitement. Without a doubt, they were very hopeful they would be going over something exotic and compelling. Perhaps they would go over different kinds of grenades other than the standard fragmentation types they utilized. Anti-armour Krak grenades were very alluring, not just for their different explosive potential but it means of its delivery. Or maybe Marsh Silas would have some volunteers from the Special Weapons Squads to go over their fabled plasma guns or even Yoxall’s powerful meltagun. 

Even those who were well composed could not high their bafflement and disappointment when a smiling Marsh Silas arrived holding an entrenchment tool in both hands. 

“Subject for today!” he chimed and then held it high up in the air. “Can any of you tell me what this instrument is?”

Their faces fell, their mouths twisted in unamused smiles, and some bounced their eyebrows upwards as if they thought their erstwhile teacher had taken leave of his senses. Marsh lowered it as if he believed they couldn’t see it and swept it slowly from left to right. “Come on now, then!”

Rayden held up his hand slowly. “Yes, then?”

“It’s...it’s a shovel,” he said gingerly.

“You’ll be taking an extra lap up and down Army’s Meadow, son, because you are  _ incorrect _ .” Rayden groaned and his head dropped. Beaming smugly, Marsh displayed the tool again. “Another guess, if you please!”

Confused, the Whiteshields exchanged a series of glances and spoke in low tones with one another. Once again, Marsh was glad they were working as a team to solve what could barely be described as a riddle. He waited eagerly for them to come to answer. When they finally did, Clivvy raised her hand. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“Sir, it’s an entrenchment tool, sir,” she answered proudly. Clivvy smiled wide and folded her arms across her chest, nodding. 

“Do you know what Whiteshields earn for providing half-answers? An extra lap up and down Army’s Meadow! We shall progress only if you state its full name!” Clivvy’s eyes popped and her mouth dropped, aghast that she hadn’t succeeded. Leander and Tattersall each patted her on the back. Again, they erupted into whispers and leaned into one another. Some debated that Marsh Silas was throwing them for a loop and they should stick to their answers. Others discussed there was no use for stating the full title of the tool as nobody referred to it as such. A few were keen to play the platoon sergeant’s little game. Finally, it was Yeardley who raised his hand. 

“Sir, what you be holdin’ in your hands thar be the Type 9-70 Entrenchment Tool, sir.”

“The young man from Polaris is quite correct. You earn yourself another ration of choco-paste for dinner.” Yeardley cheered and clapped his hands together. The others groaned but were swift to congratulate their comrade. Again, their camaraderie pleased Marsh Silas. “This is one of the most useful tools in a Shock Trooper’s arsenal. It is excellent for digging entrenchments, fighting holes, and as we’ve learned, for scraping the refuse of tunnelworks projects. With it you can fill sandbags, conceal mines, and cut false paths onto trails. As well, the bottom of the spade is very sturdy so you can use it as a hammer for numerous tasks. Here, you see the tip is thin and pointed. You might think this makes it weak and prone to bend. Don’t be fooled! Not only is it good for breaking into earth, you can pry open doors and hatches with it!”

Marsh flipped the weapon around and then ran his hand down the right side of the spade portion. “You’ll notice here, young ones, that this side has been sharpened. Now, this makes it the best side to dump soil out of especially if you’re filling sandbags. But this also turned the 9-70 into a powerful weapon.”

He pointed at Rowley. “On your feet, if ya please.”

Rowley popped onto her feet and rushed up to Marsh Silas, keeping her chin raised. He appreciated her enthusiasm even if she sometimes came across as a little nervous. Tugging her beside him, he turned her again to face him. “When you strike with the 9-70, do so with this sharpened edge and bring it here, at the base of the neck.”

Unwilling to frighten the poor girl, he merely lowered and held it over the indicated spot. “You will cut through flesh and break bone, separating the shoulder. Or, if you be pressed for time like so many o’ us are under combat conditions, use the sturdy underside and make a great blow to the top of their head or to their face.” Again, he made a mock swing that was very slow and deliberate. Rowley still flinched when the bottom nearly touched her nose. “Cultists and heretics be maddened, filthy creatures. Many times I’ve seen them discard their weapons just so they can rip you to pieces with their bare hands. So they make great lunges at you. If they do so, cause a blow like this.”

Marsh took a step back, leveled the 9-70 so the flat of the spade was angled just under Rowley’s jaw. Putting his palm on top of the handle, he thrust it forward but stopped short. “That is a blow the enemy shall  _ never  _ recover from. You’ll probably take their head off with it. Sit down, Rowley, good show.”

The platoon sergeant flexed with the 9-70 and then laid it across his shoulder. He flashed his pupils a big smile. “Now, you might be wonderin’ about sumthin’. ‘Marsh Silas,’ you be sayin’, ‘why you be showin’ us how a damned old shovel works for for killing when we has lasguns and grenades and trench knives?’ Because, my dear Whiteshields, this is an effective tool and weapon with many uses. The versatility of it is something that should never be undervalued by soldiers like yerselves. You may lose your knife, your bayonet might break, and Emperor forbid, your M36 charge packs might run dry. When it comes to that, this is something you may always rely upon. Understood?”

“Yes, Marsh Silas!”

“Very good! Now, on yer feet, it’s time for a run! Clivvy, Rayden, remember now: an extra lap!”

The Whiteshields dispersed and hurried to collect their wargear, for they were only dressed in their khaki winter fatigues and Flak Armour. Marsh Silas balanced the 9-70 on his shoulder and began walking after them. Jumping into the trench, he rounded the corner of the trenchworks and whistled to the tune of ‘The Kasr Maiden.’ But before he reached the barracks, he heard Hyram’s voice in one of the observation posts down the line. He was speaking in a heated tone to someone.

Marsh Silas was not a gossip but he was, after all, a platoon sergeant. It was his business to know what was going in throughout the platoon as any impact on morale or relations between the men could have a dramatic impact when they were engaged. Even if it was the platoon leader, he needed to be aware. As such, he did not shy away from eavesdropping. While he did not enjoy it, he tolerated it as a grim necessity as his duty. After all, as the senior NCO in the platoon, it was his duty to know everything and act as if he didn’t. That made it easier to confront troopers who were lagging behind in their work. Granted, Bloody Platoon did not have those kinds of men as they were all veterans save for their new arrivals. So instead of following his students, he quietly made his way down the trench, following the sound of Hyram’s agitated voice. 

Eventually, he came to an edge of the parapet wall and carefully peeked around the corner. Lieutenant Hyram was standing in the center of one of their camouflage observation posts. He was dappled with pockets of shade and brilliant white winter sunlight. Across from him was Captain Giles, the former intelligence officer turned company commander. Although a tall man and wide in his chest, he made a point of appearing amicable. Boisterous, talkative, intelligent, and genuinely kind, he was well-liked throughout the entire regiment and everyone in First Company was glad to have him as their new officer after Captain Murga’s death. He wore a pair of long sideburns, mirroring Hyram’s, although the latter’s were less bushy. 

Beside him was his dependable assistant and the new First Company executive officer, Lieutenant Eastoft. She was a trim woman with years of experience in multiple regiments, from infantry to artillery. Like Giles, her commission as an officer was not purchased or awarded through schooling. Rather, she earned it by working her way up the ranks from a common trooper. Some of the best and most famous Cadian officers came up in the Shock Troopers that way. Unlike her commanding officer, she was taciturn, curt, and reserved. However, she was an expert in everything she did and Bloody Platoon hadn’t forgotten her leadership and bravery during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. She wore her blonde locks into a large bun and had a thin, pale face. 

Hyram gestured with both arms as he spoke. 

“Sir, I’ve spoken with Colonel Isaev. We are not the only platoon and not the only regiment to have suffered from these ambushes. They become more intense, more common, and more daring. Armored convoys,  _ tanks _ , are being ambushed. Heretics and cultists are throwing themselves at us.”

“Yes, Cadian High Command is very much aware of the situation and have ordered us to be on high alert,” Giles assured him. Hyram was about to continue but the company commander held up his hand. “And I agree with you, Lieutenant, that it is not enough. These are clear signs of a buildup. I trust yours, Marsh Silas’s, and Junior Commissar Carstensen’s judgment on this matter. But do try not to be angry with Colonel Isaev. He answers to a higher authority.”

“I’m aware and I’ve tried to reason with him. I grow weary of the policy lines he delivers. I want to take my men out into that hinterland, range it, and see where the enemy’s strongholds are. If we can eliminate them now we can even the odds when the eventual attack comes.”

“Believe you me, Lieutenant, I would love nothing more than to unleash you into the countryside. If I could, I would take the whole company.”

First Lieutenant Eastoft, clearly worried her commanding officer would get a foolish idea in his head, stepped forward. Always seen with a Data-slate, he lowered it so she could speak to Hyam. 

“The Colonel has explicitly forbidden any reconnaissance missions at this present time. We shall conduct patrols on the roads and exercises in designated training grounds. No more. His words, not mine.”

“But they attack us  _ in  _ our training grounds. Patrolling leaves us vulnerable to ambush.” He turned back to Giles. “I implore you, sir, let me take my men out. We shall be swift, silent, and unseen! We will reconnoiter the surrounding countryside and with the Emperor’s blessing, we may very well ambush the ambushers!”

Marsh Silas wanted to give a little cheer. How he adored his friend and platoon leader’s growing aggressiveness. He knew most of it was born from his concern of the overall tactical situation. Hyram possessed a unique tendency for a junior company grade officer for seeing things bigger than the platoon. It made him all the more ferocious. Giles and Eastoft shared a knowing smile, obviously pleased the man once thought to be the least promising officer in the entire 1333 rd Regiment shaping up to be one of the best. Yet, their faces fell and all they could offer were their sympathetic violet gazes. 

Giles reached forward and squeezed Hyram’s shoulder. 

“You’re a good officer and a better man. I thank the Emperor for having you, but you’ll have to come up with something else if you want to get out there. I haven’t a clue what could convince the old man and furthermore...”

Marsh jumped as he felt a hand on his back. He whirled around, nearly hitting Sergeant Honeycutt in the face with his 9-70. The medic, dispassionate, merely recoiled to avoid it before coming back to standing straight up. He looked rather annoyed by the encounter and waited for Marsh to calm down and utter his apologies before speaking. 

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to the Whiteshields before their little stroll.”

Marsh glanced at his wrist watch. They were ahead of schedule as the subject matter lesson for the day had gone quickly despite the little game he played on the Whiteshields. Whatever Honeycutt had in store for them would not put them behind, so he agreed. Honeycutt departed to gather whatever materials he needed. Eagerly, Marsh turned back to finish listening to the remainder of the conversation but found it was already over. Hyram, Eastoft, and Giles exchanged their salutes and the latter two departed. Both walked by Marsh Silas and he stood aside, saluting professionally. Both returned it and Giles added a friendly smile. Eastoft did not but offered a respectful nod instead. 

Stepping around the corner, the platoon sergeant continued observing his commanding officer. Hyram’s head hung low and his shoulders sagged. He looked very unsoldierly at that moment and rather than upsetting Marsh, this made him very sad. An officer in low spirits was just as bad a platoon suffering from low morale. As well, he didn’t like to see his good friend disappointed in such a way. Making the sight even more pitiful, Hyram went over to the front of the observation post, took off his helmet, sighed, and set it down on top of the sandbags. Then, he braced his hands atop the sandbags, leaned on them for support, and lowered himself. He began shaking his hand and muttering to himself. Unable to make out what he was saying, Marsh thought about getting closer. Although, he already knew Hyram was admonishing himself. The man was harder on nobody than himself and often he didn’t need to do such silly things. Rarely, he committed grievances meriting such self-deprecation.

Before Marsh could do anything, Hyram put his helmet on, took a breath, and turned around. The platoon sergeant ducked back around the corner and pretended he was walking in the opposite direction. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Lieutenant stop to look at him. They both smiled. 

“Sir.”

“Staff Sergeant, how goes the training?”

He asked in his usual tone; absorbed, well-spoken, and kindly. When he spoke, one could tell he received a thorough education. That was not difficult for a worldly sort like Marsh Silas and many of his fellow Shock Troopers to pick up. But with many, there was a condescending attitude in their voice, an expression of being better than whoever they were speaking with. One never experienced that with Lieutenant Hyram. He never talked down to anyone and never made them feel inferior by any means. 

Of course, while he may not have been forcing it, Marsh knew he was putting on a face to disguise his frustration and worries. It was not because he was a self-conscious sort who needed to hide his feelings. Rather, as the platoon leader, he felt it was his duty to make sure his Guardsmen didn’t have to worry about him. The veteran platoon sergeant appreciated that and often did the same among the men as well. It was a sad necessity of command. 

“Splendid, sir. They keep asking me to take them out for a patrol.”  
“My orders stand: those Whiteshields shan’t cross the bridge until I say so.”

“Oh, they mean well, sir. They’re eager to prove themselves.”

“And so they shall but when we decide they are ready. That eagerness may get them killed. No patrols.”

Hyram marched down the trench, away from Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant lingered for a moment. While he agreed the Whiteshields were not quite ready, he believed it would not be long until they were prepared to head out for some actual experience. Taking them out to find a little trouble was just as exciting for him as it was for them. But he would not disobey his orders. Quickly, he went to the barracks, donned his wargear for the run, and rushed to rejoin his pupils. When he found them at the top of the hill, Honeycutt had them lined up in a row. In their left hand they each held a small brush not unlike the one they used to clean their weapons and apply cleaning fluid. 

The medic strolled back and forth, rigidly holding his own brush. 

“This instrument is extremely important to your well-being as a Guardsman. Each day, you  _ will  _ apply the cleansing paste from this tube,” he dug into his pocket and produced the tube which was wrinkled at the ends. “To the brush and then you will spend one minute brushing your upper teeth, and then another minute brushing your lower teeth, in a circular motion like this.”

He demonstrated with his brush. Soames scoffed and Honeycutt immediately stopped. He stormed over and stooped over the Whiteshield. “Do you have something to say, young man!?” he barked. Not cowed by the veteran’s toughness, Soames shrugged. 

“We be warriors! Why we gotta mind our teeth so much?”

This earned him a heavy-handed slap across the cheek that sent him staggering. Holding his cheek, he stood back up but froze when he saw Honeycutt with his hand raised again. 

“Dolt! You cannot be a warrior if you are sick! If your teeth rot or decays, so too will your gums, and then the infection will spread and I assure you the treatment is more painful than using  _ this  _ paste and  _ this  _ brush!” He held up both items. “Before breakfast and after dinner, you will  _ brush _ and  _ I  _ will watch. Failure to do so will earn you a lickin’ I shan’t quickly repair.”

Honeycutt looked down at Soames feet and saw he dropped his toothbrush. He picked up and whipped into the young man’s face. “Clean it, you fucking miserable excuse of a soldier, and learn some damn respect! Or I’ll learn ya some, how about that?”

The medic stormed towards Marsh Silas. At once, his posture relaxed and he turned on his heel, standing shoulder to shoulder with the platoon sergeant. “What a pack of young fools.”

“They mean well and they are good learners.”

“That does not mean they are absolute dullards,” Honeycutt growled. “We can impart only so much wisdom upon them. In the end, whether they live or die will be up to themselves and how well they listened.” He chuckled a little. “And if the Emperor is smiling on them. I pray He keeps their ears open as well as their eyes.”

“I’m quite confident they shall perform admirably under fire, old friend,” Marsh Silas assured him. Honeycutt gazed at him, unconvinced. After a few silent moments, he shook his head and returned to the barracks.

“Try not to get too attached to them, if ya can,” he said as he left. Marsh Silas seethed at the comment but chose not to respond. The Whiteshields, who either didn’t hear or were pretending they didn’t hear the exchange, waited patiently but excitedly some paces away. Upon seeing their eager expressions for something so grueling as a run in heavy packs, Marsh was instantly cheered. Still, he put on his best ‘sergeant face,’ and roared at them. 

“Onwards, ye dogs! There shalt be no loafers in  _ my  _ platoon!”

***

Having so carefully constructed a training and work schedule for the Whiteshields, Marsh Silas was also keen to surprise them by breaking it up. Sometimes, they went to the range before they performed their first run of the day. On other occasions, more intensive digging occurred before Hyram and Carstensen’s lessons. To further add to the confusion, Marsh sometimes conducted the Heavy Weapons drills without the men from the appropriate squads. This tested the Whiteshields’ recall and much to his delight they proved to have good memories. As well, he was beginning to punctuate their days not with the digging but with small unit tactics in the fields. 

That night, the moon was out as they maneuvered through the flowers. The wind was calm and the ocean waves gently lapped the shore. Marsh Silas was in the rear while the squad was divided into two teams. Both were in wedge formations; Clivvy, in charge of the first team, was on point. In typical doctrine, command of the second team fell to the squad leader’s assistant. Webley was still shaping up for a promotion to corporal and was on point as well. The formations were abreast of one another and moved slowly, carefully. 

The key to night maneuvers was movement. A Guardsman needed to move deliberately and quietly, but still keep in mind their formation. Already, they were making marked improvements. Before, they tripped on stones, cracked the stems of flowers, and allowed their wargear to rustle. Now, they were very quiet and knew where to step to minimize their noise output. Everyone relied on hand signals; Clivvy and Webley were quite adept at this. In truth, they all were, although Soames tended to be lazy regarding them and Graeme struggled to remember each code. It was not for lack of trying. Yeardley, on the other hand, took the opportunity to make jokes as he liked to make the others laugh. If he was on point, he would raise his fist and bring everyone to a stop. Then he would begin making little walking motions with his fingers, outline someone who was rotund, and then smack his bottom. No one quite understood what he was trying to convey but they still snickered at his silliness. Marsh Silas couldn’t help but be amused himself. He chose not to discipline him because he only ever did it once or twice and was quick to resume his duties. 

But the platoon sergeant was already grinning because he had something special planned for them tonight. The entire squad was on the right side of the road and were monitoring their surroundings. Clivvy’s hand snapped up and curled into a fist. Two figures came patrolling down the road. That had never occurred before. Now, Marsh Silas was well aware these two men were the patrol that tramped up and down the Meadow Road every two hours just to have a look at the ground outside the perimeter. If heretic attackers were crossing the bridge for another probing attack, they were not to engage but retreat to the base. The alarm would be raised and a defense mustered. Surprisingly, ever since Colonel Isaev ordered the new watch, the heretics made no attempt on the base. 

Marsh Silas closed in on the Whiteshields. “Potential hostiles. Course of action, quickly now!”

“Open fire?” Leander whispered cautiously. 

“Concealment!” Clivvy hissed and they all went to ground, except for Marsh Silas. He walked among them, observing them, ensuring they all stayed quiet and kept their heads down. When he found Yeardley, the young man was laying on his back instead of his stomach, twiddling his thumbs, and mouth a little tune. It looked as if he was just having a lazy lay in the sun! Marsh playfully booted him in the side to make him roll over. Graeme and Rowley were too close to each other and shaking. He split them up and whispered low enough for only them to hear that there was nothing to be afraid of. Soames was trying to open a small ration packet which was promptly confiscated by Marsh Silas. 

The two patrolling Guardsmen walked by. Upon seeing Marsh Silas standing in the flowers, they both saluted. He turned it. 

“A good night to you both,” he said in a clear voice. 

“And to you, Marsh Silas,” one of them said kindly. “Take care until the morrow.”

They continued on their walk to the camp. Some of the Whiteshields began to get up. Marsh turned around and quickly shunted them back down by pressing on their helmets. 

“You do not move until your squad leader tells you, too.” He went to Clivvy’s position. “As the squad leader, you must use your best judgement to gauge whether or not the way is clear. Only then can ya expose yerselves.”

Clivvy thought for a moment. Once the sound of the patrol’s feet on the pavement drifted away, she poked her head up and made a full scan of the area. When she finished, she tentatively stood up but kept hunched over, as if ready to dive back onto her belly. Then, she finally stood up straight and pulled her hand upwards, beckoning the others to rise. Everyone did except for Merton who apparently was paying attention. A boot in the pants from Marsh Silas got him scrambling, though. 

Once they were formed up and Clivvy began walking again, Marsh Silas strode confidently between the two formations. “Very good,” he told her, then began walking backwards to face the others. “At night, rely on your senses no matter how full the moon. Reserve communications using your micro-bead until you’re really, really,  _ really  _ sure the enemy is not close by. The same goes for speaking aloud. On a darker night, you must be even more careful with how you move and communicate.”

The patrol continued until they reached the bridge. Each Whiteshields ceremoniously tapped the stubby anchor column and then assembled in a line for Marsh’s final words of the evening. “You’re doing very well. Be sure to focus and don’t act rashly. Obey your squad leaders but never be afraid to pitch an idea or relay vital intelligence. If you have an idea, share it, it may be o’ use. That’ll make you a better soldier and who wouldn’t want to be more than they already are? We should strive to become more, should we not?”  _ I daresay, Silvanus, you are certainly unoriginal.  _ Marsh Silas just smiled and then nodded towards the camp. “Off you go, hit them thar showers and then its to bed with ya.” 

He didn’t see the use of ordering them to patrol the way they had just come like other nights. Besides, he needed to speak to a few of them. “Rowley, Graeme, hang back a moment.”

The squad seemed reluctant to let their two friends stay behind, perhaps fearing they were going to be reprimanded for something. Both Whiteshields exchanged a skittish glance but marched up to Marsh Silas and stood at attention. He smiled at them. “At ease, you two. I saw you two were shakin’. No shame, no shame. No Cadian goes into battle without fear. You must learn to conquer it on your own. An officer or sergeant or, Emperor forbid, a Commissar may not always be there to press you. You best pray it’ll never be a Commissar, too. Jus’ remember, you ain’t ever gonna be alone out there. You’ll have Bloody Platoon at your backs. Run along, now.”

Both said their goodbyes and hurried back to their squad. Ever loyal, the others waited nearby, not quite out of earshot. The platoon sergeant knew they overheard and was glad; it was meant for all of them, really. Marsh sat on the anchor for a few moments, lit his pipe, and breathed in the salty night air. He gazed at the moon as he puffed away and found it quite beautiful. There was no need to admonish young Rowley and little Graeme. Most NCOs would have scared their Whiteshields, telling them that if they didn’t sharpen up while they could their deaths would be swift. That kind of tactic could only go so far, though. He believed it would be better to encourage them and assuage their worries rather than terrify them. 

_ Are you sure, Silvanus? Perhaps that fear might motivate them better than their ‘Platoon Papa,’ nursing their feelings _ . Marsh chuckled. “My dear man,” he said, “I ain’t ever deigned to tell ya how to be an Inquisitor. I ask for the courtesy that you don’t tell me how to train my Guardsmen.” Barlocke scoffed and it echoed within Marsh’s skull.  _ You received a great deal of training from those whose stylings you abandon and you still live. Could we not attribute your continued survival to their lessons?  _ “I’m alive because o’ the Emperor, my good friends, and by being a mean fuckin’ bastard of o’ Shock Trooper,” Marsh said confidently. 

Barlocke was silent for a time. Eventually, he sighed and it washed over Marsh’s mind like cool water. He shivered from the tingling sensation.  _ I trust you, Silvanus, but do be careful; you carry me with you and I do not wish to follow my mortal self into the great unknown just yet _ . “Worry not. I suspect your mortal self still draws breath.” He looked up at the moon again and sighed. “Somewhere.”

Having grown a bit sad, he decided not to wallow and returned to the camp. At the communal showers, he found the Whiteshields finishing up. Their faces were tanned from so much sun but their bodies remained very pale. Everyone dried off, donned their uniforms, and returned to the barracks. Marsh decided to take one for himself once they were gone. 

There were two shower units in the base and could house about sixty men. Each one was located inside a wide then filled with pipeworks stemming from large, cylindrical water tanks outside. Attached to wooden timbers and beams, the pipes ran the length of the massive row of showers. The row ran down the center of the tent on a wooden platform. Each stall was about waist high with a showerhead directly above it; the tray of the actual stall was metal with wooden trim. A Guardsman could place his grooming kit on a short shelf on the right side of the stall, just out of the water’s reach. Uniforms and other wargear were stashed on a wooden bench a meter or so outside of the stall. 

Normally, Guardsmen did not wash themselves every day and depending on the post, a shower could be a true luxury. But the base on Army’s Meadow was well fortified and supplied, allowing it to expand its infrastructure. Even with showers readily available, enlisted men could not take without permission from their immediate superiors, that being their platoon leader or the senior NCO in their outfit. Marsh Silas, being an NCO, did not have to ask for permission so long as his duties for the day were complete, which they were. 

He undressed and shivered. The tents were not heated at all and even with the flaps closed, the winter cold got in. Thankfully, the water was heated and he was glad to be under it swiftly. A sigh passed his lips as his blonde hair was matted down and the water coursed over his muscular frame. His dog tags jingled against his chest with each step he took, feeling the water pool on the metalled floor of the stall. Taking his time, he scrubbed his hair and enjoyed the suds sliding down his chest. After rinsing, he reached into his kit and produced a palm-mirror. Propping it against the post of the stall, which ran all the way to the overarching beam, he drew his razor and shaved his stubble. 

When he finished, he washed his face again and set the razor down. Turning to grab his bar of soap, he found Junior Commissar Carstensen leaning on the wall of the stall beside his own. “Ah, evening ma’am,” he greeted with a smile. He closed his eyes, pressed the soap to his chest, and then his eyes popped up. Recoiling a little, he just barely kept from dropping the soap and looked back at Carstensen. “Lilias, by the Emperor!”

“Silas,” she greeted. Her arms were folded one on top of the other, resting on the wall. Dangling from her lips was his pipe, a thin trail of wispy gray smoke wafting out the bowl. Her high-peaked cap was tipped back on her head, exposing her orange-haired head. “You were not in the barracks upon your Whiteshields return, so I thought it best to search for you. I see you take pleasures in lonely, evening showers.”

She was correct in that. Marsh loved his comrades and living among the platoon. Even so, a man needed to have some time to himself and waiting until the coldest part of the night for a shower guaranteed such time. Having been found out, Marsh Silas could not help but blush as Carstensen continued to stare at him. She smiled a real smile, not the kind of upwards line that usually tugged at her lips. “Don’t let me stop you. Take your time, please.”

Warily, Marsh began running the soap over his chest. He looked away from her for a time. When she said nothing, he looked back. She was still gazing at him. 

“Is there something you wanted to talk with me about?” he asked after a polite cough. Carstensen eyed him from head to toe. 

“I just wanted to be sure you are well. Suppose I stay just for some company.”

Marsh Silas, forgetting that he was with a Junior Commissar, laughed and held out his soap. 

“Then make yerself useful and get my back!” 

Carstensen frowned at the soap. Marsh turned bright red. Awkwardly, he released a nervous bout of laughter and retracted his arm. He prepared to offer sincere, rapid-fire apologies so as not to offend her. Instead, her gaze softened. 

“Don’t tempt me,” she said. This made the platoon sergeant blush again, for he could not tell if she was joking or earnest. Regardless of how she meant it, he began scrubbing himself all over again. Carstensen remained, smoking Marsh’s ebony pipe and watching him bathe. He was inclined to go about it in a hasty fashion yet he did not want to speed up this time he indulged so rarely. Hot water, peace, quiet; even with Carstensen present, he had that. Well, perhaps not peace of mind. 

Before he finished washing his abdomen, the drenched hair covering his pronounced muscles, he faced her again. 

“Junior Commissar—”

“If my presence so bothers you simply ask and I shall depart,” she said in a curt tone. Marsh Silas was not taken aback by her tone but found it stumped by the statement. Carstensen’s posture hadn’t changed and something flickered in her ocean blue-green eyes. He tried to decipher it, that brief flash of light. Perhaps it was that natural fire in her heart, sparking in indignation. Yet she did not seem overly angry or put out. Could it be that she did not want to leave and would instead be chagrined if asked? Carstensen didn’t give him time to finish his line of thought. “Well, does my presence bother you?”

“No,” Marsh Silas answered earnestly, his voice barely above a whisper. Carstensen nodded, puffed on the pipe with some concentration, and then blew a smoke ring. Marsh smiled as the ring rose into the air and then faded into the steam hanging over their heads. “Marvelous!”

Carstensen just laughed in a humble fashion. The platoon sergeant looked back at her, a starry gaze in his violet eyes. He laughed a little and rolled his shoulders. “I can’t figure it, Lilias. Why ain’t you like them other Commissars? Beg pardon, but it doth seem like they be a harder bunch. And I don’t mean to say you are needing an edge, your valor and bravery is known by all and especially me! But you be far kinder than many I’ve known, and I’ve known a-plenty.”

The Junior Commissar studied him for a few moments. Then, she reached over and picked up the palm-mirror, still balanced against the post. Inquisitively, she looked into it as if she was searching for something. All that was shown was her own face; pale cheeks, scars, the puggish nose, her gleaming eyes like the surf in daylight. So enraptured by her intense stare Marsh forgot that he himself was without any clothes and standing under hot water. Never before had he wanted to know so badly what another person was thinking. He wanted to understand just what she was looking for in the mirror, in herself. It was as if the answer was a mystery to her too and a part of him wanted to aid her in its discovery. How he wanted to say something but no words came to mind! 

_ Do you wish for my aid in this matter? Fragment I may be, but this fragment is in possession of some power, I assure you.  _

Please, thought Marsh Silas and thus speaking to Barlocke, let me have this moment to myself. Saying nothing more, Barlocke acquiesced to the platoon sergeant’s plea. Eventually, Carstensen set the mirror down on the shelf. 

“I was blessed by the Emperor when the Officio Prefectus sent me to Cadia. I wanted to go to the toughest front in the Imperium there was and made that quite clear to my superiors. To me, there was no better way to earn one’s rank in this most hallowed profession.” She spoke almost as if she was sad. It was so foreign to her speech that even Marsh Silas was surprised. “I got what I wanted. My prayers were answered. I have no regrets.”

At some point, she had taken off her gloves. Her strong, bare finger began running back and forth across the divider between the two stalls. “A Commissar must be passionate, pious, zealous, and inspirational. Yet they must be ready to punish and even slaughter. Both are quite difficult to do, more than you may think, although that may be dependent on the person. I am capable of both but war, in all its sirens, alarms, blasts, tragedies and horrors, glory and honors, has the most peculiar effect of dampening the soul.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You can both wash  _ and  _ listen. Dawdle no longer, Silas.”

“Oh, yes, quite right, Lilias!” Marsh hastily began washing again. He kept looking up at her as she continued speaking. 

“I brought with me the gusto Commissars are expected off. During those early days, plunging into battle, I believed I could keep up that bombastic zeal until the day the Emperor requires me to join him. But those days folded into months and then into years. I have been at war a long time, Silas, as have you. My spirit is unbowed and I will give everything for this holy Imperium, whether that be in battle or in garrison. But, there is that dampening. I do not know where and when, but in me there was a change. The fire still burns but perhaps not as ferociously. I learned that my energies needn’t all be spent at one time or another and there are some things a Commissar ought not to do, no matter how many times they’ve been told they ought to. Do you understand me, Silas?”

“I believe so,” was the response. Marsh was fairly certain he understood but not entirely. Carstensen had spoken earnestly but with an element of vagueness. While not confused, he was curious as to just what a Commissar oughtn’t and ought to do. He hoped, one day soon, it would be revealed to him. But what was quite clear was that she was  _ definitely  _ not like any other Commissar he met before, not even like the mean old Commissar Ghent. 

Carstensen said nothing more and stood by while Marsh turned off the water, dried off, and put his uniform back on. He packed up his grooming kit, stuffed into his kit bag, and collected the rest of his wargear. Instead of putting on his helmet, he clipped it to his cartridge belt and walked out shoulder to shoulder with the Junior Commissar. They walked slowly through the cool night, the wind tugged at their hair. 

Suddenly, she stopped. Marsh did too and before he could react, she put the neck of the pipe to his lips. “I have not told anyone that. I thank you. But I also trust you shall tell no others.”

“I would not dare,” Marsh said with an amicable grin. Carstensen nodded. 

“I am most glad the Whiteshields have you to look after them,” she said suddenly. “But try not to fill their heads with dreams. You are no Barlocke, after all.” 

“Oh, they have enough dreams already, lemme tell ya. We all do, don’t we?” 

Carstensen looked at him queerly. Marsh shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I can’t say for sure. But right now, this certainly feels like a dream.”

The Junior Commissar smiled softly. 

“Yes, it does.” And they walked slowly up the hill, bathed in moonlight.


	7. Chapter 7

_ You weren’t wearing any clothes during the entire affair. Does that not bother you? _

Marsh didn’t think this was the time to be chatting with Barlocke’s fragment and refused to respond. He continued trudging down the slope towards the training grounds. Below, the Whiteshields were all waiting for him, wondering what his lesson for the day would be. But Barlocke proved unwilling to let go of the topic.  _ It is very unusual, at least let me say that. _

“Barlocke,” Marsh muttered under his breath. “I’m busy.”

_ My goodness, you sure are prickly when it comes to Lilias. _ Marsh shook his head. “Carstensen to you. She is Lilias to me.”

Barlocke laughed and the warmth spread throughout the platoon sergeant’s mind, although he was more annoyed than comforted by it. But he finally let the subject go as Marsh Silas gathered up his trainees. “Alright slags, make a half-circle. That’s it. Subject for today: weapon maintenance.”

Everyone groaned in disappointment. Marsh narrowed his eyes. “Stop that, now. Being a Shock Trooper isn’t all glory and battles. There is much that you must do to prepare for those things, from digging latrines and slit trenches to making sure your weapon is correctly cleaned and purified. A Cadian can do many things with and without his weapon, but I assure you that the M36 is the most efficient tool at your disposal. So let’s get to it, get those kits out and start cleaning!”  
Marsh Silas did not sit idly while the Whiteshields carried out extensive maintenance. He took a seat on a nearby crate, laid his M36 across his knees, and began to scrub the interior of the barrel with a metal-wire brush. After cleaning the mouth, he took a much longer road with a wider brush, and ran it down the barrel several times. With the smaller brush, he also cleaned the chamber for the charge pack, ensuring it was clear of dirt and dust. Common practice was to insert one of the magazines after cleaning to see if it snapped into place correctly. When he tested it, it worked perfectly. Next came the optics; the rail on top supported one, low-profile, elongated scope. Although the M36 was a hardy weapon which could take a great deal of physical abuse, its weakest feature was the scope. Carefully, Marsh dabbed the lens on both ends with a soft white cloth doused in a cleaning solution the men dubbed ‘spit,’ because it was clear and smelled like an unwashed mouth. The next step, which many Whiteshields forgot about, was applying anti-rust solutions to certain parts of the weapon. Just inside the barrel, around the charge pack chamber, the trigger guard, the butt-plate, and the metal hinges for the leather carry strap were the targets. This was a different solution which the Shock Troopers, at least the ones in Bloody Platoon, referred to as ‘drool.’ It was distinct from spit because it was more vicious, gluey, and descended slowly from the bottle. Many compared it to the streams and gobs of saliva leaking from an Ogryn’s open mouth when listening to a superior officer. 

Melee weapons were the next items to service and this was never a prolonged task. Many Guardsmen carried at least three; a bayonet, combat knife, and their 9-70 entrenchment tool. Some veterans among the Shock Troopers tended to carry four, usually some manner of club they acquired, bought, or even built, and often swapped their standard issue knives for trench knives. These were distinct weapons, with fighting knuckles built into the grip which were made various, dense alloys. As well, the pommel bore a dull alloy point which could crack open an enemy’s skull. Not only did the blade need sharpening on the standard-issue whetstone, drool had to be applied to the metal knuckles and the crusher. Bayonets also needed sharpening and a little bit of the solution for maintenance and the 9-70 required less so. It was a durable tool and weapon, so one only needed to service the point of the shovel and sharpened edge. While 9-70’s tended to be in surplus, Shock Troopers held onto their wargear for as long as possible. Stretching supplies as far as they went meant there would be more in dire circumstances. Besides, if they broke a piece of wargear, they knew they would have some of their wage docked to pay for a replacement in some dismal armoury. A more ruthless officer or Commissar would inflict corporal punishment and that was to be avoided at all costs.

Finally, the sidearm was serviced. These varied among the veteran Shock Troopers. Some carried laspistols while others elected to carry autopistols for their rapid automatic fire and stopping power against unarmoured targets at close range. Whiteshields were issued surplus autopistols by default and they usually weren’t of the highest quality. But Barlocke bestowed Marsh Silas with the gift of a Ripper Pistol, a ferocious weapon with armour-piercing rounds woven with a poisonous substance that could immobilize and shortly kill the target if wounded. In a strange way, it was like a fire-and-forget weapon. Before the Inquisitor came to the 1333 rd Cadian Regiment and led Bloody Platoon on their adventures, Marsh Silas never saw one up close. He thanked the Emperor for Barlocke’s fragment to coach him on its maintenance. Much like the M36, it revolved cleaning the barrel, magazine chamber, ejection port, trigger guard, and the iron sights. Although it had a rail feature, Marsh Silas still hadn’t found a scope in the armoury that would fit it. The suppressor required to be cleaned with the rod as well. 

After the weapon was cleaned with both solutions, Marsh Silas grinned as they approached the time to enact his little plan. Having finished ahead of the Whiteshields, he stood up and looked down at the Whiteshields who were just wiping down their autopistols. Making a show of examining his wrist watch, he shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Now, now, that won’t do. Y’all ain’t fast enough!”

“But we’re almost done, Staff Sergeant,” whined Soames, who was the most put out with having to do something as droll as weapon maintenance.

“Might be fast for Whiteshields but it ain’t fast enough for the Emperor’s Shock Troops! All of you, select one of your autopistol magazines and hold it up.” Each of the Whiteshields complied and met his violet gaze with confusion. “Now, eject all them bullets from the magazine into your hand. That’s it, that’s it...now polish’em individually.”

“Every single one!?” Soames whined.

“But there’s twenty of’em in mine,” Yeardley moaned.

“Oh, quit whining!” Graeme huffed. “I have twenty-five but I’ll be able to clean’em twice over before you finish yours!” He quickly set to his task, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on cleaning them with a cloth. 

“This seems more like a punishment than a training exercise,” Rayden muttered as he lazily set about to the task.

“Indeed!” added Merton. “When are we going to go on a real combat patrol? Let’s find some heretics to kill! We’re all weary of sitting in camp! We want to fight!” 

Clivvy, sitting beside him, shouldered him.

“Enough whining. Pick it up, soldier.” It was enough to spur him and Rayden both. Marsh Silas grinned, happy with their eagerness.

“Believe you me, I’ve been talkin’ with the Lieutenant to try and get you out there. But if says we ain’t gonna go, then we ain’t gonna go. Orders are orders.”

For a few minutes, the squad worked silently. Cleaning autopistol slugs was not an overly difficult task but it was certainly tedious. They were small, easily dropped if one wasn’t careful, and they were often in excess of fifteen rounds per magazine. When they finished, they grudging held up the shining brass cartridges. Marsh Silas nodded and ordered them to reload the bullets into the magazine. When they finished, he inspected each one and smiled proudly. “Good work. Next magazine.” Everyone groaned again but complied. 

“This is simply cruel, Staff Sergeant,” Rowley murmured.

“It builds character!” Leander boomed, clapping her on the back affectionately. But it was such a heavy hit Rowley nearly lost all the bullets in her palm. Beside her, Webley paused and looked up in a tired manner.

“Do we have to do this with _all_ our magazines, Staff Sergeant?” she asked. Marsh nodded in response. She seemed to deflate a little. “I thought you liked us.”  
“Trust me, I do!” Marsh laughed, folding his arms across his chest. “But from time to time you gotta do the hard stuff, just like I did.”

“Did your instructors make you do this too?” Yeardley asked, clearly interested enough that he stopped working. Gesturing for him to continue, Marsh began pacing in front of them.

“Nay, twas not the drill sergeants or my other teachers. No, it was not until I became a Whiteshields that I was forced to partake in this bothersome endeavor. And the man who did it is still with us this day!” He laughed dryly and shook his head. “The 540 th Youth Corps was... _ blessed _ , we’ll say to remain polite, by the presence of Commissar Ghent. Not only did he see fit to keep us in the highest moral and religious standards, he made sure to make our days in garrison a living hell. Grueling runs, heavy work details, constant practice at the range, punishment for the slightest infractions.” 

Marsh turned around, untucked his jacket, shirt, and thermal layer, and lifted them to expose his lower back. Everyone leaned forward and marveled at the faded scars that criss-crossed his back. “See those? That was a cat-o-nine tails Ghent took to me one day for my boot laces comin’ undone during a march. Tied me right up to a tree and gave me ten licks fer it.” 

This he said trying to sound jovial but it was difficult to mask his bitterness over the affair. He had never forgotten it and was often reminded of it when Ghent looked his way. “Nasty stuff,” he breathed, then resumed his more bombastic, storytelling voice. “And o’ course, he made us take them rounds out and clean’em up. Again and again and again. Our fingers were numb by the time he’d make us stop! That’s what ya get when you have a Cadian Commissar in your midst, I suppose.”

Everyone exchanged a glance and looked back at him. Eventually, Tattersall cleared his throat.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Staff Sergeant, but if you disparaged at suffering at such a task, would you not see it in your heart to do us a kindness and spare us from it?”

Marsh chuckled and waggled his finger at him.

“Don’t be playin’ with my heart there, boy.”

“It seems futile,” Yeardley said, pausing again while Graeme already finished his second magazine and started the third. “What could possibly be taught from this affair?”

“He wudn’t tryin’ to show us a damned thing! Ghent just didn’t like us; he’s a hateful fellow.” The Whiteshields eyes began to widen and their faces became plastered with fear. Marsh waved it off. “You best never cross him or you’ll be wishin’ for cleaning these here bullets. If that man gets you in his crosshairs, you’ll be the subject of all that hate. Doesn’t matter if you did wrong or not, that man will drive you into the ground.” Suddenly, everyone stood up. Marsh Silas blinked. “Now what are you all after? I didn’t order you to stand up.”

Nobody spoke and stood at attention. Marsh continued to gaze at them in confusion. Then, he blinked and turned around. Standing before him was Commissar Ghent. The imposing, violet-eyed officer loomed over him. His piercing violet eyes bore through the platoon sergeant. Both hands were in his coat pockets instead of folded behind his back; one might have seen this as a more casual manner but it made him look all the more menacing. Worse still was the unamused line his mouth was pursed into. 

For a few, tense moments, all Marsh could do was stare back at him, wide-eyed. Already, he envisioned every punishment that the Commissar could inflict upon him. Another flogging, heavy work, a forfeiture of pay, loss of a finger, an official reprimand that would go all the way up to the Regiment, or maybe even a summary bolt-shell to the forehead. It took every fiber and muscle in his body to not tremble with fear.

Ghent remained silent and unreadable. Marsh Silas knew there was nothing he could say to get out of the situation. No amount of words or pleading or excuses would spare him from some kind of punishment. Still, he had to act. So he pulled his Ripper Pistol out of the leather holster on his hip, sat back down, ejected the magazine, removed all the bullets from it, and began polishing them. Only then did Ghent look away; he turned his attention on the Whiteshields who immediately resumed their postures and began cleaning their bullets diligently. 

Marsh hoped this would make him go away. But when he glanced to his left, he found Ghent still standing over him. When he did, though, he thought he found salvation. Junior Commissar Carstensen was walking by and took notice of the situation. Her gait slowed for just a moment and then she immediately marched over. 

“Commissar Ghent, sir!” she reported, saluting. He did not return it. Carstensen didn’t waste a moment. “Sir, has any one of these troops committed an infraction? If so, I am the Junior Commissar of their platoon and I shall carry out their punishment.”

It may not have sounded like salvation to the Whiteshields but Marsh saw her ocean blue and green eyes briefly flit in his direction. She was going to try and get him out of this without being punished severely or worse. But Ghent continued to ignore her. Instead, he walked around in front of Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant didn’t want to look up but it was impossible not to. Ghent leered at him for a few more moments. 

“I never knew what Lieutenant Overton ever saw in you,” he said in a cold, calculated tone. “You have always been somebody who has been unable to find the deeper meaning behind things. If you haven’t figured out why I forced you to polish those bullets, I doubt you ever will.” He looked over his shoulder at the Whiteshields and shook his head. “Understand something ye Whiteshields, this Staff Sergeant has earned the right to call himself a Shock Trooper but he has been  _ given  _ everything else. He’s soft and such leaders forge softer soldiers. You best pray for the Emperor’s protection in the days to come.”

With that, the Regimental Commissar turned around sharply. The bottom of his coat swirled around his legs and he stomped off. Marsh Silas watched him go and sank a little in his seat. Embarrassed, he looked up at Carstensen. She was still looking at Ghent leave. When she finally met his eyes, her face was expressionless but her eyes said everything. They were kind and sympathetic, and he found reassurances in them. Nodding, she left before the Whiteshields could suspect anything. Marsh smiled after her and then resumed his duties. 

***

That night, the Whiteshields finally finished constructing the latest addition to the underground barracks. Their comb, as these sections were called, was instead shaped like a square rather than a hexagon. The far wall was the longest and accommodated six bunks in two horizontal rows of three. Either side had two bunks dug into the wall, one right above the other. Wooden beams and trim outlined the doorway, corners, and ceiling, providing extra support. In the center was a table, a couple crates, a few chests, and a chair. Their wargear was arrayed very neatly by the corresponding bunks. It was a fine piece of engineering both Arnold Yoxall and Sergeant Stainthorpe were satisfied with its construction after a length inspection. 

The Whiteshields’ reward was a quiet walk outside the wire with Marsh Silas. Its purpose was leisurely rather than martial. For the occasion, Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen joined them. Marsh and Hyram walked ahead of the little column, their M36’s slung over their shoulders. 

“Carstensen told me about what happened,” Hyram said kindly. “That was very much inappropriate. I’ll speak to Captain Giles about it and he’ll take it up the chain of command.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yerself on my account, sir,” Marsh assured him. “Ain’t no use makin’ a fuss over it. Ghent’s always been that way and he ain’t ever gonna change. I’ve just learned to accept it. Serve with somebody that long, that’s about all you can do.” He snorted. “To think I’ve fought o’longside him longer than some of these gunmen.”

“I think you’re doing a fine job of teaching the young ones,” Hyram said, changing the subject. “But Ghent is right in a way; you need to be hard with them so they’ll be prepared for when the action finally hits us.”

“I’m hard on’em enough, thank you,” Marsh said rather defensively. “I think they’re ready for more, sir. Why don’t you let me take them out on a patrol? Nothing serious, just a few kilometers up and down the road.”

Hyram immediately shook his head, his wrinkled nose and pursed lips visible in the moonlight. 

“Absolutely not. Even if Regiment allowed for it, I would not consent. They’re still too green.”

“They can hack it, I’ve made sure o’ that.”

“It’s too risky, even with their stalwart teacher,” Hyram smiled and tapped Marsh amicably on his pauldron. “In due time, Silas, in due time. I have enough to deal with already.”

The platoon sergeant was very much aware that Hyram was still pressuring Captain Giles to take his request for a reconnaissance mission up the chain of the command. Bloody Platoon, being the first platoon in the company, had a secondary duty of acting as scouts. They received extra training in navigation and traveling over long distances detached from their Regiment. Hyram wanted to capitalize on this training and experience to sweep the countryside for the heretics’ bastion. He, like many others within the platoon, was quite convinced a big strike was coming. Marsh agreed with him. Anything they could do to weaken the current enemy presence would aid them in future battles. But Hyram and Giles were getting nowhere. 

Offering a dejected sigh, Hyram shook his head. Marsh could read his face and knew he didn’t want to talk about it. At least, not with the Whiteshields so close behind. Frustration with command was better discussed in privacy rather than in front of the enlisted men. Instead, the Lieutenant managed to smile and looked up at the moon. “This is a fair treat for their hard work. It is a good night.”

Marsh breathed in the crisp, clear night air tinged with salt. Waves lazily lapped the shore, the white water running up and down the sand. All around them, the yellow flowers swayed in the lackadaisy breeze. But the platoon sergeant grinned as they approached the bridge.

“Oh, this ain’t no treat.” 

Just as he finished, a dozen figures popped out of the flowers on either side of the road. All of them brandished 9-70s, screamed, and charged at the Whiteshields. The newcomers burst into a series of shouts and confused orders. Clivvy managed to divide the squad into two lines, arranged them back to back, and ordered them to fire. Everyone raised their M36’s, squeezed the triggers, and nothing happened. Everyone shrieked as they noticed their weapons were unloaded. By then, the unknown assailants were upon them and a melee ensued. The Whiteshields grappled, kicked, punched, dodged, and blocked effectively and some even managed to throw back the attackers. But in a few minutes it all over; every single was subdued and pinned. 

Laughing, Marsh Silas walked over to them, planted his hands on his knees, and bent over to look them in the eyes. “Splendid, well done, you all just killed. This is why you always check yer weapons before you pass beyond the wire and  _ always  _ go out expecting a fight. There ain’t no leisure walks in war, children.”

He stood up and gestured at the masked men. “Off’em, now, and reveal yourselves.” The assailants backed off and removed their black tactical hoods. It was the men of First Squad; Sergeant Holmwood, Corporal Efflemen, Monty Peck, Battiste, Hoole, Marsden, and the others all grinned and laughed. They congratulated one another as they caught their break; there was much back-slapping, handshaking, and exchanges of the victory fist Bloody Platoon adopted from Barlocke. But they offered praise for the Whiteshields defense and embraced them warmly. 

Marsh Silas dismissed First Squad and they made their way back to camp, laughing merrily all the way. The Whiteshields, their pride sore, nursed their bruises and gathered around their sergeant. In turn, Marsh looked at Hyram. “You’re right, they’ve still got a way’s to go, but their hearts are in the right place. A little more time, they’ll be ready to go.”

“I pray you are right,” Hyram said, amused.

“How did you manage to unload our weapons?” Clivvy asked.

“Did you notice how I handed each one of you yer weapons before we left?” Marsh teased. Clivvy opened her mouth to speak, then looked down at her boots in aggravation. The platoon sergeant laughed. “Come, let’s sit awhile. You have indeed earned the right to rest under the stars for a time.”

Everyone doffed their rucksacks, using them as headrests or seats, and broke out dry rations. Others smoked lho-sticks and drank from their canteens. Marsh Silas contented himself with his pipe, sitting on the stone anchor to the bridge railing. There was enough space that Hyram could share it with him. Both men removed their helmets, letting the wind tug at their trim blonde locks. Carstensen did not sit but she did stand beside Marsh Silas, her hands folded behind her back as she periodically took a few puffs on his pipe.

After a time, she held onto it a little longer and ran her thumb over the golden Aquila emblem on the bowl. Marsh could not help but stare at her; her skin was so pale it seemed to mirror the color of the moon. Her orange locks, loose from a bun, swayed across her shoulders.  _ Careful, Silvanus, others might begin to notice your gaze _ . Marsh rolled his eyes. I care not if they catch me looking, he said to Barlocke.

When Carstensen finally handed it back, she looked at him curiously. 

“Commissar Ghent does not speak to you often but when he does it comes off as particularly harsh,” she remarked. 

“He’s always hated me,” Marsh replied with a wave of his hand. “And he knows I hate’em right back. Beginnin’ your pardon, Junior Commissar. Tis not his station I despise, that I respect. Tis the man and the man alone.”

“Even during the Raid on Kasr Fortis he seemed ready to reprimand you even after our triumph,” Hyram said. “Is it just that the bond between you is sour or is there more to it?”

Marsh stared at his friend for a few moments. He looked back at Carstensen, who seemed curious as well. When he looked at the Whiteshields, all of them had turned their attention and were eager to listen.  _ I, too, am very interested in this tale _ . You ain’t found it for yourself, rooting around in my head, Marsh Silas asked him in his mind’s voice.  _ Haven’t you learned by now I don’t like to pry too deeply? Life would be oh-so-boring if I couldn’t indulge in conversation. Come, let’s hear it! _

Offering a sigh, Marsh ran his hand through his hair and then placed it on his knee. He took a quick puff on his pipe and then held it aside. 

“I was born in Kasr Polaris,” he smiled and pointed at Yeardley, “just like you, lad.” Yeardley seemed to take a great deal of pride in coming from the place as his sergeant and beamed brightly. “I came up with two lads, Overton, who was our previous Lieutenant before Hyram joined us,” he reached over and tapped the neck of his pipe against the platoon leader’s chestplate. Slightly embarrassed, Hyram blushed and pushed it away. “The other was a boy named Clement. Funny lad, charming, and smart. He was Overton’s comrade before he was mine, and we three became fast friends. Ghent was a young Commissar when we were boys and we took great delight in outwitting him, but we got caught most times. We trained together, slept side by side during exercises, and even went through the Month of Making together. By the Emperor, what a time that was! All they gave us were our Militarum coats and survival knives and we enjoyed ourselves  _ capitally _ . But after that we was split up; they kept training here on Cadia while I was whisked to Macharia, that blasted Hive.”

He ran his thumb over the golden Aquila emblem again. Nobody asked him why and he was very glad for it. “When I finally came back to Cadia a few years later, the Emperor saw fit to reunite us in the 540 th Youth Corps. Overton was our squad leader and Clement our corporal. We were quite effective even with Ghent constantly pressuring and chastising us. Then one day, we got into a bad scrap with a large band of cultists. This was the Battle of Route 569, a supply road linking two bases that were operating at the time. We were ordered to retreat and I was caught on the backfoot; took two autogun slugs to my lower back.”

Marsh Silas turned and tapped the lower left side. “I was still moving but they shot me again in my leg. Kept dragging myself on but finally a mortar shell came down and rolled me into a ditch. I was half-buried in earth and couldn’t move. I thought I was done for an’ said my final prayers to the Emperor. But do you know who He sent me? Clement. That boy fought his way back to me across three hundred meters of bad country, patched my wounds, threw me over his shoulders, and ran me outta there.”

He laughed a little and shook his head. Handing his pipe to Carstensen, he leaned forward and pressed his palms together. “My word...what bravery. And his bravery was rewarded with...” Here, Marsh’s voice flattered and his jaw clenched. To recollect the scene after so long made his heart swell. He thought it would burst and if it did, he would not be able to hold back the tears. Instead, he kept silent and set his teeth as if he was biting down a tough piece of meat. Everyone looked at him, not in confusion or concern, but in rapt understanding. Nobody spoke but they seemed to understand. Hyram especially; he leaned closer, allowing their shoulders to touch just a little bit, just to let Marsh know he was there. And the platoon sergeant loved him for that. 

When he finally settled his wounded heart, he took a long breath. “Clement was tired by the time he got me back to our secondary line. I was hobbling beside him, filled with shrapnel and bullets. Overton was the first to greet us and he hugged us. By the Throne, I can see it now. He put his arm around me for support, but Ghent came out of the smoke and fog. Stopping us, he looked at me in disgust. Then, he looked at Clement. ‘You were ordered to retreat. You have disobeyed that order.’ Before myself or Overton could say anything, he raised a laspistol and shot Clement through the head.”

Marsh wrapped his fingers around each other to keep his hands from trembling. “I felt the heat from the bolt, hear the sound as it broke his skull. His head snapped back and he just slipped off me. Executed the bravest boy I ever knew for rescuing his comrade. A Guardsman should be rewarded for such a feat, not killed. I’ve nevah forgiven Ghent for that, but I’ve never failed ta afford him the proper respect of his station. And neither should you, no matter what.” He waved his finger at them and smiled as warmly as he could.

This lightened the mood somewhat but he could still see the awed expression in the Whiteshields’ vibrant violet eyes. He was about to continue, force through his melancholy mood to brighten their spirits. Before he could, he felt Carstensen’s hand on his shoulder. It was just as the base of his neck and she squeezed very gently. Her fingers moved a little, her thumb grazing the soft skin at the base of his neck. Marsh Silas could not help but blush as everyone stared at her. Even he looked back in disbelief. But she did not see their eyes, as they were only for him in that moment. In hers, he saw a deep sadness and understanding. He opened his mouth to say something to her and she did the same. But neither managed to speak, their lips slightly parted, waiting for words that did not dare rise. 

Eventually, she closed her eyes, murmured something to herself, and then nodded. She gazed at the Whiteshields. 

“Staff Sergeant Cross is correct. Commissars have a duty to perform just as you do. You must respect them at all times. If that discipline breaks down, it will trickle into your ranks and effect your—” She stopped short and looked over her shoulder. “What was that noise?”

Everyone looked down the bridge. The moonlight was fading slightly, obscured and broken up by clouds. All they could see at the other end of the bridge was pure darkness. All Marsh could hear were the waves breaking on the shore and the timid whistle of the wind. But then Hyram stood, putting his helmet on and taking his M36 into his hands. 

“I hear it, too.”

_ They’re right, something is coming. I can sense it _ . Barlocke’s voice was thick but did not waver.

Marsh Silas extinguished his pipe, tucked it into his webbing, and just when he went for his helmet, he heard it as well. A kind of beating and thudding and pounding on the pavement. There was a metallic rattle, like so many blades being drawn from scabbards and from arms being carried. Permeating it all was a choir of ragged, rabid, rapid, breathing. The platoon sergeant put on his helmet and grabbed his M36. Just then, the clouds moved on and moonlight illuminated the landscape. A horde of hooded heretics, clad in rags, were storming down the bridge. 

“By the Emperor, fall back!” Marsh Silas shouted as he knelt, took aim, and began firing. But the Whiteshields didn’t; instead, they began loading their M36’s and began forming a firing line. While Carstensen and Hyram began firing, the platoon sergeant grabbed Clivvy’s collar and jostled her. “Did you not hear me!?  _ Fall back! _ ”

Clivvy reluctantly recalled the squad, who were brandishing their bayonets as if they were about to charge, and began running back to base. Marsh grabbed Hyram. “Go with’em, make sure they don’t come back! Raise the alarm would ya!?” Hyram didn’t argue and went after them. Only Marsh and Carstensen remained. She was at the left anchor of the bridge and Marsh at the right. While he crouched and fired, she stood and cycled her Bolt Pistol. The rounds struck the heretics in the front ranks, blowing open their chests, severing arms and legs, cutting them in half, and decapiating them. Switching his M36’s power outage, his red lasbolts turned to gold and began slicing the heretics apart. But they came in their hundreds, leaping over the bodies and streaming down the bridge. When they were three-quarters of the way across, Marsh ran over to Carstensen. “Lilias, let’s go!”

“I’ll cover you!” 

“I shan’t leave you!”

Carstensen expended the last of her magazine, reloaded, and then joined Marsh Silas as they sprinted down the road. Behind them, heretics began firing their autoguns wildly. Bullets snapped on the pavement, cracked through the air, and sliced through the flowers on either side of the pair. Carstensen kept turning around halfway to fire a few shells from her Bolt Pistol but Marsh just kept running. Ahead, he watched all the lights in the camp turn and the alarm began blaring. He saw figures emerging from trenches, barracks, and even Regimental Headquarters. Hyram was standing at the gate, waving at them in a hurry. Bloody Platoon stream the camp, running as one cohesive mass, flowing around obstacles like a river to come to their comrades’ aid. 

Marsh and Carstensen were side by side and running as fast as they could. His helmet’s micro-bead crackled to life.

“You best not look behind you!” Hyram shouted over the link. They were about thirty meters from the gate when the Lieutenant screamed, “Get down!”

Marsh and Carstensen grabbed one another and dove onto the pavement. The former landed on his elbows and pain shot up through his elbows. But he kept his head down as a fusillade of lasgun and Heavy Bolter fire flew over their heads. Behind him, he heard heretics screaming as they were cut and blasted to pieces by the incoming fire. Some were struck by some bolt shells and lasbolts they turned into mist or tumbled into pieces.

After a few moments, Marsh felt a hand tugged at his chin strap. Carstensen was saying something at him but he couldn’t hear over the noise. Not until she pointed with her other hand toward the gate did he understand. Together, they began crawling their way back into the perimeter. When they passed through the gate and approached the sandbag checkpoint surrounding the gatehouse, Hyram and several of the Whiteshields raced out to pull them behind cover. Once there, Marsh and Hyram began going up and down the platoon. 

“Mark your targets before ya fire!” Marsh shouted. “Maintain your base o’ fire! Let’em have it!”

“That’s it, men!” Hyram screamed. “That’s the style! Pour it on’em! Show them what the Emperor’s warriors are made of!” He was marching back and forth without a care to the bullets flying over his head. Some landed right next to his boots and he didn’t even seem to notice. It was an inspiring display of courage, so much so Marsh wanted to sit back and watch him in action. Knowing the platoon was in good hands, he went over to the Whiteshields and began observing them. 

“Rowley, you’re aiming too high! Yeardley, fire discipline, switch to semi-automatic! Soames, you halfwit, ya don’t yank the trigger, ya squeeze it! Yes, that’s the way! Cycle that weapon properly, you have it, excellent work Webley! Tattersall, shift your fire right, they need you on the right! Come on, come on, give it to’em! They ain’t getting inside the base tonight!”

Marsh paused briefly to fire a few shots. The enemy was coming on in great numbers and their bodies were beginning to pile up in the streets. Others stormed through the flower fields, sprinting, ducking, firing a few shots, and then repeating. Although they were provided with concealment, there was no cover for them. Gunners lowered their weapons’ elevations and sprayed the fields. Cries rose up from among the flowers. Behind them, the mortar teams began assembling and the shells rained down on the enemy. Large columns of dark earth and torn flowers flew upwards. Some stalwart groups of heretics pressed close to the wire but were driven off with grenades. 

An engine rumbled to life and Master Sergeant Tindall steered his Chimera to the gate. Making a roadblock of his vehicle, the IFV’s Multilaser began opening up. Streams of red rocketed from the barrel, obliterating heretic squads. The hull-mounted Heavy Bolter and the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter also added their might to the action. Some of the assaulters managed to close and lobbed grenades at the Chimera, but the armor withstood the blasts. After one explosion, however, the Storm Bolter stopped firing. Marsh looked over just in time to see the gunner fall into the turret. 

Despite the massive amount of firepower directed on them, the heretics were clinging to their foothold. More and more seemed to be adding their weight to the fight. The velocity of their fire was increasing. But Marsh Silas got out of cover anyways, sprinted to the Chimera, and clambered up. Bullets  _ pinged  _ off the hull as he descended into the turret. Instead, he found Tindall tending to his wounded gunner. The Master Sergeant glanced at Marsh and pointed at the turret. 

“Get that fucking gun up right now!” 

Marsh Silas got back into the turret, cycled the bolt, and began firing. The weapon made his arms shudder as he raked the enemy lines with automatic fire. Muzzle flashes, tracer rounds, red, blue, and golden lasbolts, and the white flashes of explosions lit up the night. More grenades were thrown at their line; some blew up the coils of barbed wire and knocked over sandbag positions. But the Cadians returned to their posts each time and poured fire onto the enemy. It was a dazzling display of firepower. 

Suddenly, the enemy stopped firing. The Cadians’ own fire dwindled. It went from a barrage to a sprinkling and then ceased entirely. After a few moments of quiet, Guardsmen whooped, cheered, and gave thanks to the Emperor for another successful firefight. It stopped a few minutes later when they heard noise coming down the road. At first, some speculated it as friendly reinforcements. But Marsh Silas heard the combined breathing, the rattling weapons, and the thudding feet. Raising the magnoculars strung around his neck, he gazed down the road using the night vision feature. Another horde, even greater in number, was storming towards their camp. He dropped the scope and took hold of the weapon. 

“Enemy contact! Open fire!” he yelled and the line exploded with another fusillade. It was going to be another long night.


	8. Chapter 8

When dawn arrived, the fields in front of the base were strewn with corpses. Rigid, their arms were twisted upwards, as if reaching for the sky, or their legs were twisted in terrible directions. Grisly piles of bodies were on either side of the road, some so high a man could have waded waist-deep into them. Severed body parts littered the pavement and dark, dried blood stained both road and flower petals. Much of the flowers closest to the perimeter were shredded or burned away. Shallow craters marked every mortar shell that landed on the enemy. Here and there were a few bones stripped of flesh or a small collection of putrid intestines spilled from their owner. In a few places, the heretics managed to breach the outer wire by throwing themselves on the fencing. Such gaps were filled with the bodies, many still clinging or strung across the barbed wire. Some even lay at the foot of Master Sergeant Tindall’s Chimera, still parked in the main gate. But the turret was empty and the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter was in the hands of another crewman. 

Marsh Silas was over at the right flank with some members of Bloody Platoon. With their M36’s slung over their shoulders, they watched the morning waves wash up on the beach. Sunk into the damp sand were the bodies of countless heretics who attempted a flanking maneuver during the middle of the night. Over the course of the battle, the ocean dragged away some of the dead while the remainder sank into the sand. Now all that was visible were the heads and shoulders of the dead, turned halfway towards the base as if they were breasting a rainstorm. Most of the equipment they dropped was taken by the sea as well, but a few primitive and shoddily-constructed autoguns were stuck into the sand like grave markers. Fat beach flies buzzed in sable clouds above the bodies, burrowing into their open mouths, eye sockets, and ears for their feasts. Above, seabirds circled and occasionally descended to tear away strips of flesh.

Upon observing this, Caferro, the grenadier of Second Squad, flicked his lho-stick onto the ground and stubbed it out. 

“Guessin’ them birds care not if they feast upon holy Cadian flesh or the corrupted skin of the enemy. Do you think they even care?”

“Like them awful black bugs,” Jupp began, still smoking his own lho-stick, “they’re impartial as to who they devour.” At this, he shook his head, took a final drag on his smoke, and then flicked it away. Despite being ordered to recuperate from his wounds several weeks earlier, Jupp considered himself healed enough and joined the fray during the night. Marsh Silas was proud of him for that. He was proud of the entire platoon; they accounted themselves well during the battle. It was not the heaviest nor most terrible skirmish they ever fought; while it seemed harrowing, they sustained a number of such attacks before and all agreed the heretics’ moves were folly. As insignificant as a battle could be, Marsh did not think it fair or wise to pass up on the bravery of warriors. Not only were they courageous, Bloody Platoon fought keenly and in tandem with the rest of the regiment. It was all he could ever ask of them. Even the Whiteshields did well.

Deciding he should check on them, Marsh turned on his heel and tramped back towards the front gate. Along the way, he passed many Shock Troopers from all the companies in various states of ease or rest. Some cobbled together enough sticks and wood to make a few morning campfires. A few used the opportunity to roast a few dried meat strips or brew recaf. Others drew a heavy coat or poncho over themselves as a blanket, lay by the flames, and slept. More than a few did not rest, either keeping watch, policing their wargear, collecting ejected charge packs littered on the ground, or checking on the men under their command. Medics and field chirurgeons plied their trade, treating the worst cases at a temporary aid station close to the perimeter. Other, less serious cases were marked with triage tags that had all but the green, category-three strip torn away. Some Enginseers were prowling around, servicing heavy weapons and vehicles that were engaged in the fighting. 

Marsh Silas spotted the Whiteshields, still holding ground within the sandbag bastion surrounding the gatehouse. Clivvy, Webley, Tattersall, and Leander were all keeping watch. Graeme was too but he was struggling to stay away and his head continued to droop, rise, droop, and rise. Yeardley and Rowley were dead tired; they sat on the ground, shoulder to shoulder, and with their backs against the sandbags. Both had removed their helmets and Yeardley’s head was resting on Rowley’s shoulder. Their breathing was gentle and steady. Across from them, Soames was laying on his back with one leg over the other and his arms folded behind his head. He wore an unconcerned, disinterested expression. The remainder, Merton, Rayden, were both awake but were at rest.

Joining them, he wordlessly knelt in front of Yeardley and Rowley. For a few moments, he regarded them with a sweet smile. But upon seeing Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, First Lieutenant Eastoft, and Captain Giles nearby, he decided it would not make a good show if two of the Whiteshields were found cuddled up together. It pained him together, but he reached over and shook Yeardley. The lad looked upon him with glossy, sleepy eyes.

“Keep restin’, but put some space between ya,” he whispered.

“Oh, Staff Sergeant, must I? I was dreamin’ of things so sweet and woke only to find them true,” Yeardley said in a voice thick with fatigue. His gaze fell on Rowley who had not stirred. He did not seem eager to part from his friend’s warmth. Marsh nodded, waited for him to move over, and then joined Clivvy. She continued to gaze at the hundreds upon hundreds of corpses in the fields. 

“Your first combat action,” Marsh Silas remarked with a wry, crooked grin, “you must be proud.”

“Have we done well?” was all Clivvy asked.

They had. Despite their initial zealousness, bordering on foolishness, which nearly saw them charge the enemy at the bridge, they obeyed subsequent orders to the letter. Everybody, even Graeme who seemed jittery and Soames whose overconfidence continued to be an issue, kept up the fire and did not flee. Although, Marsh Silas knew he made it easy for them. The squad remained in a fixed, prepared position with greater advantages of cover and overwhelming fire support from the rest of the 1333 rd . Without having to maneuver or act on their own, their fight was very simple. Hold position, aim, and fire. That was not always the case in the field when they would be fighting platoon or company actions. Defense often proved a more tenable strategy than an assault and Marsh Silas was concerned this victory would characterize their expectations for fights to come. What was more, it was but  _ one  _ fight. That did not make them Shock Troopers yet; they still had four more years of fighting to go before they earned that designation.

But this was not the right time for a lecture. All ten Whiteshields were tired but he could see a proud satisfaction on their faces, even the ones who were asleep. Even Soames, who attempted to veil his pride behind an aloof and uncaring smile, was visibly happy with their performance. Not only had they fought their first action, they survived and attained victory. Many Whiteshields were not as fortunate as they. Some did not even survive their first actions, going right from the Kasr to the graveyard. Such was the fate of many young Cadians and while it was a bitter pill for Marsh to swallow, he knew it forged stronger Shock Troopers like him and the veterans. At that moment, he supposed Clivvy and her compatriots were thinking the same thing and counted themselves among the strong. Very badly, Marsh Silas wanted to count them in that number. Knowing he couldn’t, and unwilling to sharply remind them of hard days ahead, he simply tapped the side of her helmet. This made Clivvy look at him.

“You did the best you could and that is absolutely enough,” he said. “Keep trainin’, keep workin’, and keep fightin’ like this, and you’re gonna go very far. I’m proud o’ ya.” Those who were awake all turned and smiled at Marsh Silas. It did the platoon sergeant a lot of good to see them so happy. If they could grin like that after a fight, he was confident they would become Shock Troopers with ease. 

Some hushed, heated words behind him caught Marsh’s attention. Hyram was standing in front of Captain Giles; the former was talking rapidly and his violet gaze was drawn in a narrow glare. Taking off his helmet, he ran his fingers through his sweaty, blonde locks and then clutched some. Looking exasperated, he continued to speak and gesture towards the perimeter. Giles kept raising one hand and spoke in a calming tone. Nothing soothed the Lieutenant who seemed to be getting angrier. Finally, Eastoft approached and offered a quiet but nonetheless sharp reprimand. Silenced, Hyram lowered his head and then seemed to mumble an apology. Accepting it, Giles placed a reassuring hand on the platoon leader’s shoulder. Then, he turned his attention to Eastoft and said something firm. His executive officer betrayed no emotion and simply nodded. 

Marsh Silas knew what just happened despite not making out most of the words. Once again, Hyram was furious at the heretics being able to move across the sector unmolested and having free-reign to attack their base. He wanted to take Bloody Platoon out to ambush one of their parties and gather intelligence. If he could do that, then they might discover where the traitors, cultists, and heretics were all hiding. A punitive mission could wipe them out. But once again, the company commander’s hands were tied by the regimental commander’s standing orders: no missions outside without strong reasons to do so. Suspected heretic hideouts were not acceptable reasons. Giles wanted to get out there too but he had orders too; disobeying them was an impossibility. So both officers were stuck; neither of them liked it but there was nothing they could do. 

Lieutenant Hyram was left standing alone after Giles and Eastoft left him. Taking his leave of the Whiteshields, Marsh Silas decided to join his comrade and cheer his spirits with good news. “Sir,” he greeted him, “my report on the Whiteshields?”

“Go ahead,” Hyram said, sounding somewhat distant but not entirely disinterested. 

“The young ones be tough; some are still pullin’ watch. Fought well in the night and racked up a mighty kill count, if that pile o’ bodies in front of their position counts for anything. Clivvy held’em together real good. Kept up the pressure and now they be sitting by their empty charge packs.”

“Well, it can be expected they performed well by the nature of this battle,” Hyram remarked after a few moments. He took out a handkerchief and began wiping the black soot and dust from his cheeks. Marsh was worried the Lieutenant would say that and attribute it to reasons other than their personal bravery. But after he cleaned his face, he smiled. “And their training, no doubt.” Marsh brightened up, then. “Tis but one fight. Keep training them, Silas, and they should do just fine.”

“Aye, sir, o’ course, but a few patrols off the peninsula might rack up their experience.”

“Even if I could order such an action, I would not. They are not ready to operate it as a lone squad and barely so for the entire platoon. Silas, those young ones nearly  _ charged  _ an overwhelming enemy force. Clearly, their heads are still very full of the foolishness their teachers taught them.”

At that, Marsh frowned.

“Myself and some o’ these here gunmen went to war with some of that same foolishness.”

“And do you know why you’re still alive?” Hyram asked. “Because you  _ wised up _ . Make sure this lot does the same or the only thing they’ll ever be is a corpse.”

Master Sergeant Tindall’s Chimera rumbled to life. With the treads grinding on the pavement, he reversed the IFV, made a one-hundred eighty degree turn, and drove his vehicle to the motor pool. With the gate cleared, some platoons were ordered back to their original positions and to their barracks. After watching the Chimera drive away, Hyram sighed and looked back. “Apologies, Silas, I do not mean to be harsh with you. I have much to think about including those Whiteshields. They seem like a very good bunch and in you they have an excellent teacher. I just don’t want to see them perish so quickly because we pushed them on too fast.”

“Don’t worry, sir, I ain’t coddling them,” Marsh assured him with a smile. “Come now, why don’t we get some recaf in ya and then you can bemoan to your sergeant about how much Regiment bothers ya.”

“Oh, how alluring,” Hyram said sarcastically. 

“Movement!” somebody shouted. 

Marsh and Hyram turned sharply towards the gate. They became aware of a steady hum of distant engines. The former raised his magnoculars and gazed down the road. He knew vehicles were approaching but because of the pavement, there was no dust cloud. After a few minutes searching, he spotted a series of single headlights coming through the early morning murk. 

Hyram took the magnoculars from Marsh’s hand; the cord was still around the platoon sergeant’s neck and he was yanked over slightly. Carstensen joined them, reached across Marsh to take the scope from the Lieutenant’s hand and jerked him in that direction too. 

“You could just ask for’em!” Marsh croaked as he loosened the cord from around his neck.

“Could they be reinforcements?” Carstensen asked.

“If so, they are very late,” Hyram said, taking the magnoculars back. 

“Ain’t ya got yer own!?” Marsh groaned. Grunting, he took them back and looked through. “I ain’t heard anybody put out a call for reinforcements. Why would they send for’em now?”

He observed dozens upon dozens of olive drab Astra Militarum motor bikes. Recounting, he hit thirty of them but he knew more were crossing the bridge. Suddenly, figures wearing sack hoods and masks rose from the rear of the bikes. These balanced autoguns and other weapons on the shoulders of the drivers. Others popped out of sidecars and loaded mounted Heavy Stubbers. Some carried bottles of liquor with rags stuffed into the neck. Taking matches to them, the rags began to burn. Then, the cavalcade let out a great screeching cheer and opened fire on the perimeter. 

“Take cover!” Hyram shouted as bullets flew through his pant legs and ricocheted on the pavement. “Find cover, get down, move!” He guided countless Guardsmen to various spots, pushing and shoving them out of the line of fire. Marsh was already halfway to a sandbag redoubt when he turned around, took his platoon leader by the wrist, and led him into cover. Both of them dove down just in time. One of the leading heretic bikers swept by and the passenger swung a sword at them. It missed the pair only by a hair. 

Sitting up, Marsh took aim, led the target, and fired several lastbolts. Three missed but the fourth struck the sword-bearer right in the back. It blew open his coat, burned and blasted away his flesh, and exposed his broken spine. Another shot hit the tire, tearing it apart. Shaking and then falling over, the driver slid across the pavement from the bike. Before the heretic could stand, Sergeant Queshire rushed him, drew his trench knife, and punched him across the jaw with the steel knuckles. Pouncing on him, the leader of Third Squad proceeded to beat the attackers face in. 

Many Guardsmen stood back up and fired at the attackers as they flooded into the base. Some of those who rode in dismounted from the bikes while they were still moving. Most were quickly cut down but a few succeeded in engaging the Shock Troopers in hand to hand combat. Some brave Cadians were gutted or had their throats slit, but comrades avenged them swiftly. 

Holding position, Marsh kept low and picked off targets as they came in. To his right, he noticed some troopers rushing out. To his horror, he realized they were the Whiteshields. Jumping onto his feet, he ran in front of them with outstretched arms. 

“Back to your positions, now!” he hollered.

“Let us fight them!” Clivvy insisted. “We’re ready!”

“No, return to your position and provide covering fire!”

“Marsh Silas, look out!”

Marsh turned to see a bike coming right at him. Before he could wheel around to fire, somebody dove into him. They were a mess of flailing limbs and tumbling frames. When the platoon sergeant collected himself, he realized it was Arnold Yoxall who saved him. The demolition expert rose, picked up a discarded M36, held it by the barrel, swung, and smacked an enemy driver right off his back. This promptly sent him into the path of Tatum who had just finished refueling his Flamer tank. Roaring, Tatum set the heretic on fire, then turned the barrel, and engulfed three of the bikes in flame. When they came out of the fire cloud, the heretics leaped off their vehicles, screamed, and pranced around as they attempted to extinguish themselves. 

Turning back to the Whiteshields, he saw they still hadn’t turned back to their positions. All were standing in the open firing bravely at the attacking enemy. Hyram ran among them as well as several of the enlisted men of Bloody Platoon, pushing, pulling, and prodding them back to their positions. Only Carstensen, threatening them with her Bolt Pistol, forced them back. Before they all returned, Rowley was struck in her chestplate by an autogun round. It didn’t penetrate but the impact sent her on her back. All the Whiteshields attempted to charge out to defend her, but Hyram kept them back. Only Yeardly managed to break through. He stood in front of her with his teeth bared, as if he was a loyal hound protecting its master. A pair of dismounted heretics came at him; he shot one down but the other knocked the barrel of his M36 aside. 

His feet moved on their own. Marsh drew his power sword, hit the activation key on the hilt, and just as blue energy wreathed the blade, he beheaded the heretic. Drummer Boy was nearby and he tossed his sword to him. He caught it, rotated, and buried the blade in the side of another enemy. Then, he slashed another down and drove it through the chest of a third. Meanwhile, Marsh grabbed both Yeardley and Rowley, and dragged them back into cover. Shoving them into the sandbag bastion, he pointed at each of them. 

“Stay down!” he ordered and ran back out. 

The battle proved chaotic. While the heretics were being massacred, they had disrupted the perimeter. Pockets of Shock Troopers made separate stands together, parrying the assault as best they could. More of the fire bombs were tossed, setting stalwart men on fire or spreading flames to nearby facilities. Brave Guardsmen threw blankets over the flames or removed fuel canisters and ammo crates away from them, taking the risk to ensure their supplies did blow up. Bikers were bayoneted and shot off their vehicles. Lasbolts and bullets filled the air. 

Then, they began to retreat. It seemed sudden and arbitrary. But Marsh Silas saw what they were after. Throngs of heretics were rushing the motor pool. Those who attempted to steal into the Chimeras were slaughtered by their infuriated crews. The Chimera jockeys fended them off with knives, autopistols, and even wrenches. Master Sergeant Tindall stood with one foot in the turret and the other on the rim. In his hands was a semi-automatic shotgun and he killed one after the other.

“Try to take  _ my _ Chimera!?” he screamed furiously at a heretic clambering up with a knife. He fired a slug into him, tearing part of his shoulder away. He swept the barrel on another and blew the heretic’s head open. “The Emperor has the Imperium but this is  _ my  _ Chimera!”

The heretics failed to take any of the heavy vehicles. But a number stormed into a shed and drove off with nearly all of their motor bikes. Marsh Silas narrowed his eyes. Spotting one bike they failed to capture, he jumped on, and turned on the engine.  _ Are you sure you remember how to drive one of these? It has been some time since you’ve taken one out. _

“Faith is reserved for the Emperor,” Marsh said aloud as he tested the handles and pedals. “But have a little trust in me, would ya?”

Tearing out of the shed, he fishtailed onto the main road, and sped to the gate. Hitting the brakes, he brought himself abreast of Lieutenant Hyram. “I’m goin’ after them! They ain’t gettin’ away with the Emperor’s materials so easily!”

Much to his surprise, Hyram didn’t protest.

“Then you better get moving!” he hollered.

“I’m coming with you!” Carstensen shouted, jogging over and mounted the back of the bike. She attacked the safety straps to her belt and loaded a fresh magazine into her Bolt Pistol. Fleming, who was a short distance away, drew nearer.

“Junior Commissar, you may need this!” He tossed her his grenade launcher, which she caught with one hand, and then managed to catch the belt of shells he threw after it. Throwing the belt over her, she checked the cylinder of the grenade launcher and then snapped it shut. 

“Drive on!” she ordered.

Marsh tore through the gate. The heretics were just across the bridge and turned onto the northern road. Rumbling over the bridge, he turned the bike sharply and chased them. He felt Carstensen move around behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as she stood up, balancing her feet on the paneling that ran on either side of the passenger seat, and raised the grenade launcher. Her crimson coat billowed in the wind and her high-peaked cap was blown away. Orange locks spilled across her forehead and were sept backwards. Carstensen’s ocean green-blue eyes were blazing and her teeth were gritted. 

_ Now that is a warrior!  _ Barlocke followed it up with crisp, delighted laughter which filled Marsh’s chest with a similar feeling. His heart fluttering, he grinned confidently and pressed on. They were soon upon the fleeing enemy. As they closed in, the heretics looked over their shoulders and did their best to turn their guns on them. But Carstensen took aim, led the targets, and squeezed the trigger. Grenades arced towards the enemy, landing in their midst. The impacts sent some of the enemy bikes off course, careening into ditches and breaking the necks of their riders. Relying on the concussion, she picked off targets one by one. Shrapnel impaled countless heretics, others were thrown off and died as their bodies broke against the pavement. 

Carstensen opened the cylinder, letting the spent shell casings spill out, and then reloaded. When she fired again, she scored a direct hit on the nearest bike. The engine exploded and the heretics were reduced to bloody hunks. Marsh Silas and Carstensen both cheered. “Did you see that!?” Carstensen cried gleefully.

“Wonderful shooting, Lilias!” Marsh encouraged her. She was able to destroy several more. But then the enemy changed tactics, reduced speed, and were soon around and behind them. One fired an autopistol at Carstensen. The rounds missed her flesh but the impact against her chestplate staggered her; the grenade launcher fell from her grasp. A bike on the left side closed in and the heretic riding it attempted to grab her. Instead, she turned, snatched its arm, and then planted the barrel of her Bolt Pistol against his chest. The shell tore right through him and the bike slammed into an embankment. Turning again, she shot the heretics on their right and several that had drawn behind them before they could bring their blades down on the pair.

More dropped back. Carstensen was still engaging targets to the right and rear. Marsh found himself eye to eye with an enemy driver. Digging into his holster, he brought his Ripper Pistol to bear and riddled him with armour-piercing rounds. The bike and its driver fell into a ditch. Aiming forward, he expended the rest of the magazine into the rear of the motorbike in front of them. Shooting out the wheel, the vehicle became unsteady and the occupant fell off. As he bounced by, Carstensen shot him with her sidearm. 

“I’m out!” she yelled as they drew close to the few remaining bikes. All the others that had attempted to surround them were dead. Dozens of burning and destroyed bikes littered the road behind them as did countless bodies. But there were still five more to go. Marsh knew Lilias did not want them to escape; he didn’t want to let them go either. 

He felt Cartensen’s arm wrap around his chest. She pointed forward. “Get me closer!”

Marsh didn’t need to ask why. She activated her Power Fist and the weapon began to glow with blue energy. Drawing beside the nearest motorbike, Carstensen gave a cry, raised her Power Fist, and then brought it down on the head of the enemy bike. The impact crushed the front, forced it down onto the road in a shower of sparks, and created cracks in the pavement. Both the driver and the rider were flung forwards, flailing through the air. Both landed hard and broke their necks on the pavement. 

The next two thought they would fight back. One drew back to Marsh and Carstensens’ left and the other on their right. Marsh tossed his Ripper Pistol back to Carstensen; she nimbled dodged a sword thrust, took a magazine out of Marsh’s pouch, and loaded the weapon. Leaning back to dodge another swipe, she flipped the Ripper Pistol back into Marsh’s hand. Leveling it, Marsh blasted the attacks on their right and killed them both. A single rider on the left attempted to attack with a sword, but Carstensen reared her Power Fist back and hit him square in the face. The heretic’s faceplate was crushed and he flew off from the bike into a ditch. 

Carstensen reloaded for Marsh again and gave him back his weapon. Coming up to the second to last bike, she instead brought her Power Fist down on the rear wheel. The bike reared backwards; just as the occupants tumbled back, Marsh turned in the seat and fired a burst into both driver and rider. “One more, Silas, one more!” Carstensen cheered. “Let’s finish this!”

They came upon the final one. The rider leaned back and attempted to shoot Marsh in the face with an autopistol. Carstensen was too fast and struck him in the arm with her Power Fist. This tore off his forearm, leaving a bloody stump at the elbow. Wailing, the rider clutched his wounded arm. Marsh took the opportunity to shoot him in the chest, knocking him off the bike. The driver hunched forward, putting all his wait on the handles and pedals in the vain hope of escape. How badly Marsh wanted to see the heretic’s terrified face!

Instead of simply knocking him over, Carstensen hand shot out and she wrapped her fingers around the heretic’s throat. Using the advanced strength of the Power Fist, she lifted him slightly off the seat. Shrieking, the heretic attempted to hang onto the bike as it began to totter. Carstensen’s hand slipped around Marsh again and took his Ripper Pistol. Pressing the barrel against the enemy’s head, she grinned. “Emperor’s blessings, heretic!” she shouted and squeezed the trigger. Throwing the body away, the bike teetered down the road for a few meters before flopping over. 

Marsh slowed the bike down and caught his breath over the humming engine. Looking over his shoulder, he found Carstensen doing the same. For a few moments, neither spoke, merely gazing into one another’s eyes. At the same time, they both smiled and began to laugh. 

***

After collecting the grenade launcher, the drive back to camp proved far more leisurely. Marsh sat half-hunched at the controls as he gently followed the southern road back to the bridge. Along the way, they observed their carnage; smoldering wrecks and many broken bodies. It was a very satisfying sight. Chuckling as he weaved through the debris, Marsh glanced over his shoulder. 

“I think the Emperor is very happy with us this day, Lilias,” he said loudly. 

“Very happy indeed,” she replied. She was sitting down and had her arms wrapped around Marsh’s middle. She was not leaning against him, merely keeping herself steady. 

“They was making for the northern road. No doubt that’s where one of their hiding holes is. Hyram would love ta get at’em. I wonder...ah, yes, I think I might have an idea that could serve both his and my purposes very well!”

“Twas the Inquisitor who taught you to drive this? I knew you were capable but not so skilled!” Carstensen said, changing the subject. It surprised the platoon sergeant but he was glad to speak of other things for a time. 

“He was a good teacher,” Marsh replied. He grinned at her. “Soon as I was able to, I attended the course for it and got my Militarum license for it. Tindall might be permitted to pilot a Chimera but at least I have this machine!”

For a brief time afterwards, they didn’t speak to one another. Marsh didn’t mind at all. He was content with the morning’s affair; they deflected another heretic attack and were able to wipe out their final assault wave. Now, the mist was gone and the morning sun was shining very brightly over the coastal road. The blue waters sparkled in the sunlight, the air was crisp and clean, and soon the road was clear. It was proving to be a smooth, enjoyable ride. Although, he did feel a little sad, remember those days he spent with Barlocke, driving out into the countryside for the scouting runs. How enjoyable it was to have space and freedom from the camp and to be in the company of one he held so dear. It was all the more enjoyable when Drummer Boy joined them. He wondered if the Voxman missed the Inquisitor as much as he did. 

Carstensen said something but it was drowned out by the engine. “What was that?”

“I said I apologize for the other night!” Carstensen said. Marsh blinked and looked back momentarily. 

“Of all things,  _ that’s  _ on yer mind, Lilias? Apologize and for what?”

“It was inappropriate of me to speak to you while you were in such a...bare state!” she said. Marsh didn’t know if she was trying to be funny but it made him snort a little. “I should have chosen a better time to speak with you!”

“I’ve been out of my uniform in front of others for many years, Lilias, doesn’t bother me a bit!” Marsh said with a cheerful smile. “But if I can ask, I’ve been wondering’ why you came ta see me then!”

Carstensen didn’t respond. Marsh tried to be patient, but he was a little concerned he asked too personal a question, and looked over his shoulder. The Junior Commissar didn’t look troubled but she seemed somewhat hesitant. 

“Tis a larger base and a bigger Regiment,” she said. “You may think there are many places to go where there are no extra ears or eyes, but it is very hard to be private! You and I are afforded few occasions to speak plainly, just us two, and I have been hoping for more of those occasions.”

Marsh Silas blinked and then smiled softly. 

“I’d like more o’ those occasions too, Lilias!” He said. “Hey, maybe we’ll get two days leave in Kasr Sonnen. We’ll have plenty o’ time to talk then.”

Carstensen rolled her eyes.

“Hopefulness is a dangerous thing, Silas!”

“Better than not hopin’ at all!” Marsh said lightly, then spied something on the road. “Look there, it’s your cap!”

Marsh braked gently and brought the bike to a stop a couple meters away from her crimson hat. Kicking the prop into place so it wouldn’t fall over, Marsh took off his helmet, hooked it on the handle, took off the safety belts, and retrieved the hat. Brushing the dust and grit off it, he turned to give it back. Carstensen was already off the bike and reached out for it. But the platoon sergeant remembered how she had playfully kept his pipe from his hands some days ago. Just as her fingers were about to wrap around the brim, he pulled it away. 

Grinning playfully, he began to hand it back. Immediately, Carstensen knew what he was doing and frowned. 

“Revenge does not become you, Silas.” She reached for it but he drew it away again. She frowned. “Come now.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” he said, stretching his arms out. “You can have a little fun with me but I can’t have any with ya.”

Lilias sighed irritably but then she smiled. She made one more attempt for it and missed terribly. This made her giggle—not laugh,  _ giggle _ . It was a sound Marsh never heard her make before and not one he thought she’d ever emit. He found it sweet to his ears and he smiled wide. Unable to resist himself, he pulled it back again. This time, she lunged for it, catching both his arms. Laughing, Marsh gave it up and let her take it. Still chuckling, Lilias stepped away and held it up. 

“Victory,” she said confidently. 

“I must concede defeat,” Marsh said, bowing briefly. When he stood up, he found her turning the camp over and over in her hands. He chuckled and shrugged. “Apologies, Lilias. I can’t help myself, I suppose. I’m very...I’m...well, you...” the words halted in his throat. He knew what he was going to say and suddenly found himself unable to speak it. Carstensen looked at him curiously and then her eyes widened. Turning slightly, she looked out to sea. 

“Yes,” she stammered a little, “I am as well. I mean, I am fond of you too. You are a good soldier but you are a better man. And these feelings in me are not for the soldiers.”

Marsh felt his face heat up. Carstensen looked up quickly and soon there was a dusting of pink on her cheeks. Quickly, she looked back at the sea. “It would be very nice if you said something now,” she blurted. Some wind hit them then, spilling her orange hair back. Marsh’s blonde hair was matted slightly but a few locks were turned over. Rubbing the stubble on his jaw, he laughed a little. 

“I feel close to ya, Lilias,” he said. “We’ve shared many battlefields together and have been through some hard treks. You have been there for me many a time. And I for you, it seems. We are good soldiers together, but that ain’t just what we are. Ah, maybe it’d be better to say that’s not  _ just  _ what we want to be. Sorry, I don’t mean to speak for ya.”

“You do no such thing,” Carstensen said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She looked up at him but didn’t smile. “We are bound by rank, duty, and honor, set by the God-Emperor Himself. But the Emperor holds sway in all things, large and small. And if the Inquisitor you speak so much about is to be believed, then the Emperor granted us agency. Then, perhaps, these feelings we have are justified by the Emperor’s laws, and the Emperor’s laws come before all else, even before our duty, and what we said that night, about dreams, perhaps that’s all this could ever be, but...but...”

Carstensen’s voice faltered. Marsh didn’t know what to say. For a few, quiet moments, they stared at one another. Then, Carstensen’s hat fell from her grasp. Although he was not close enough to catch it, Marsh instinctively opened his hand. When he did that, Carstensen slid her own into it. It was difficult, for her left hand was clad in the deactivated Power Fist. Marsh looked up, felt her gloved hand on his cheek, and then her lips upon his own. He blinked in surprise, then squeezed his eyes shut, embraced her, and pressed himself deeper into the kiss. In that moment, which seemed to last for millennia, Marsh didn’t feel the biting wind or smell the salty sea. He didn’t feel the weight of his M36 on his shoulder or the awkward metal of her Power Fist in his hand. All Marsh could feel was her body against his own, her warmth, the sweet taste of her lips, how soft they were, and how tenderly she cupped his cheek. 

When they finally parted, Marsh and Carstensen stared at one another with almost sleepy gazes. 

“...the dream might be worth living,” Marsh said. Carstensen nodded and then looked away. 

“A good Commissar would regret such an act,” she breathed, then nodded her head to the side. “I suppose I am not a very good one, then.”

“You’re the best one I’ve ever met, and I ain’t just sayin’ that,” Marsh said with a beaming smile. “As long as it doesn’t keep us from doin’ our duties, I think we have the Emperor’s blessing. Without Him, we would not have these swelling hearts, would we?”

“We best hide this,” Carstensen said. “They will not understand.”

Marsh agreed with a nod and lifted his head; his nose grazed her own. 

“We should return. Fleming will be missin’ that weapon o’ his.”

“Pah, he may not get it back. I should have been a grenadier.”

***

Marsh Silas and Carstensen returned to a chorus of cheers, whistles, and applause. Shock Troopers swarmed them; for the platoon sergeant, they had many back-slaps and playful punches. For the Junior Commissar, there were salutes, handshakes, and polite congratulations. The pair smiled as they progressed through the crowd. Eventually, they wormed their way out and found Lieutenant Hyram with the Whiteshields. 

“You do not  _ argue _ with a superior in the middle of a firefight,” he scolded, waving his finger at them. “When myself, the Staff Sergeant, Junior Commissar, or  _ anyone  _ who is senior to you gives you an order, you follow it! Understand!?”

“Yes, sir,” the Whiteshields replied meekly. 

“Standing dumbly and disobeying orders will not only get yourselves killed it will get the people around you killed. Do not let it happen again or I shall be driven to harsher means! Now, get! Not you Rowley, see Sergeant Honeycutt for your bruising. Do not argue, myself and none of these fellows care for displays of strength. Get treated this instant, young lady.”

As Bloody Platoon began drifting back to the barracks, Hyram turned around and gazed at the pair. Carstensen took a brief moment to throw Fleming his grenade launcher and remaining ammunition. Both exchanged soldierly salutes before the latter departed. Marsh smiled at Carstensen who nodded back at him with a knowing gaze. Both then turned to face the Lieutenant who was gazing at them curiously. “Are you two...well?”

“O’ course, sir!” Marsh replied.

“In good health and spirits, Lieutenant,” Carstensen assured him. 

“I ask because you two seem particularly...” he looked them up and down as if he hadn’t met them before. “...well, happy. Nearly glowing, I daresay.”

Marsh and Carstensen exchanged a brief glance. The former offered a confident but carefree smile. 

“How could you not be happy after dealing a blow like that to the enemy?” Marsh said, then quickly changed the topic before Hyram could ask another question. “We chased’em north, sir. We suspect that’s where they might have a station o’ some kind. Now, I know yer hands be tied but I got me an idea, sir. Colonel Isaev don’t want no platoons going out there for reasons he don’t approve of. Scouting and ambushing missions ain’t something he want right now. But, we got this mess o’ Whiteshields with us and they sorely need some experience. What if we suggest a platoon training exercise for fieldcraft and patrolling to Captain Giles? Then he can take it up the chain. And maybe that training mission will just happen to involve some scouting and ambushing. It’ll just, you know, turn out that way cos’ o’ the circumstances, see?”

Hyram shook his head. 

“Staff Sergeant, I told you. The Whiteshields aren’t ready for that, they need more practice.”

“But sir, ain’t there more important things to worry about? We all got the notion a big push is coming and it’ll be all the worse if the heretics are free to slash at roads, flanks, and even our base. I think them Whiteshields is ready, and even if ya don’t, this may be our only chance to get out there, find the enemy, and destroy them before they can strike us decisively.”

Hyram chewed his bottom lip and continually shook his head. Eventually, he looked over at Captain Giles, standing a short distance away conferring with other company commanders. After a few moments of staring, the Lieutenant shook his head. 

“There is no way the Captain will go for this,” he said wearily.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part II: Ambushing the Ambushers

All the next day, Bloody Platoon prepared for its mission into the hinterland. Men taped modifications and attachments to their M36’s to ensure they would rattle. After sharpening them, bayonet blades and trench knives were painted black so the metal wouldn’t catch moonlight. Even their standard-issue lasguns were scratched up or painted so the alloy finish wouldn’t catch any light. Bandoliers, pouches, haversacks, rucksacks, cartridge belts, and their webbing was all secured so that nothing would rustle while they were on the march. Instead of bringing their helmets, met donned soft covers. Mostly, these were knit watch caps they could pull over their ears and wear low over their brows. Squad leaders and other non-commissioned wore their patrol caps instead of their peaked caps. Everyone was still bringing their tactical hoods, as these could were highly modular in their wear. The black hood was a standard part of the uniform and could be worn around the neck, drawn up around the head without covering the face, or could cover the face all the way up to the eyes. Despite this coverage, everyone still took charcoal from the cooking pits and blackened their faces. Dog tags were removed from the chain and placed in separate areas; one tag would be placed inside a boot and the other would be stashed inside a coat’s chest pocket. In this event, if someone was blasted to pieces, one could potentially find identification in what remained of the torso or in an amputated foot. 

Logistics were an important aspect of their preparation. Bloody Platoon was going to be living rough for at least a week and they were going to have to carry everything they needed to survive. Rations, medicine, extra charge packs, ammunition, munitions, and explosives, toolkits, repair kits, mess kits, detonation kits, cells and crystals for the Vox-casters, and their sleeping bags and blankets; everything needed to be carried. To remain clandestine they would not be able to receive airborne supply drops. Nor would they be able to bring any Enginseers or other supporting personnel into the field. Whatever they broke, they would need to fix themselves. Almost every individual in Bloody Platoon were tall, broad, and strong, and could carry a great deal of weight. Even still, what each Guardsman carried was going to be carefully assembled, reviewed, and placed upon their persons. Voxman, some of the specialists, and the men in the Heavy Weapons Squads were going to have the worst of it as they already carried some of the heaviest loads for a standard operation. Even worse, weapons that could be placed on carts would have to be carried; carts were too noisy and wouldn’t make it over the harsh terrain of the Cadian hinterland. 

One of the most important aspects of the long march would be navigation. While Marsh Silas handled the logistical and tactical elements of their preparation, Lieutenant Hyram spent a great deal of time at Regimental Command. He needed to download the most up-to-date versions of the sector’s map to his Data-slate. As well, he needed copies of hard-copy parchment versions of the map so that each NCO would be able to contribute to their movement. On top of all this, he needed extra compasses, plotting tools, spare parchment, field quills, and spare parts and batteries of the Data-slate. Once he procured these items he needed to plot their course. Of course, the tale he and Captain Giles spun to Colonel Isaev was their training route. In reality, the route would take them up the northern road and through grounds they were previously ambushed in. Once they conducted a more thorough investigation of the area, they would break to the west and truly began the march through the countryside. From there, Hyram would begin plotting the route as they went based on the evidence they collected through scouting and reconnaissance. 

In the days leading up to it, Hyram did more than just prepare the aspects of the mission. In every spare moment he had, he tucked himself into his barracks with his books. Flipping through the  _ Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer: Cadia _ , as well as countless tomes regarding small unit tactics, he educated himself as much as he could on the fighting ahead. Just how he did it, Marsh didn’t know, but Hyram managed to get a copy of a tome composed of tactical observations regarding Catachan close-quarters ambush doctrine. Many would have disagreed, but at times like this, Marsh Silas was very thankful to have an officer like Lieutenant Hyram in command. There was something about his studious nature that made him somewhat intimidating. If he didn’t know how to fight an enemy, he was going to disappear, teach himself how, and then return entirely prepared to battle. The methodical nature of it made him seem far more dangerous than the typical Cadian officer. He was going to personally control the methodical destruction of the enemy. 

Marsh Silas was waiting for Lieutenant Hyram at the bottom of the ladder. He huffed and shook his head. 

“I say, man, the lack of communication from command to our ranks is appalling,” he grumbled. Briefly, he looked up and down the hall to make sure none of the other enlisted men were around. “I was only  _ just  _ informed that heretics raided a convoy and several vehicle compounds in coordinated attacks. They made off with dozens of motorbikes and carriages! Colonel Isaev was aware of this information and failed to pass it on to anyone, including the company commanders! He said, ‘it did not seem like action to take note of,’ said that right to my face. Can you believe it, Silas?” 

Hyram folded his arms across his chest, leaned back against the wall, and looked down at his boots. He shook his head and wore a furious expression. Eventually, he looked up sharply. “I begin to suspect him of growing feeble and incompetent ever since Bloody Platoon fulfilled the mission he and the rest of the regiment was unable to complete. Pinning medals to our chests is not good enough any longer.”

“He has been fighting you and the company commanders on this matter for weeks. Should we begin to suspect him of treason?”

“Heresy and corruption?” Hyram held up his hands. “I have seen no evidence of this. We are not going to play the role of Inquisitor here so don’t get any fanciful ideas about raiding his office. Enough, what is the platoon’s status?”

“Sir, Bloody Platoon is almost squared away,” he reported. Hyram nodded and checked his wrist watch. 

“Sundown will be in half an hour. Round up the squad leaders.”

Marsh set to his task and pulled Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthorpe, Walmsley Major, and even Sergeant Clivvy from their tasks and assembled them in the main common room. As well, they were joined by Drummer Boy, Color Sergeant Babcock, Sergeant Honeycutt, and Junior Commissar Carstensen. Hyram sat at the center table and laid out the map. Everyone gathered around him in a circle. 

The platoon sergeant made sure he was next to Carstensen. While she stared dutifully at the map, he couldn’t help but sneak a few glances at her. Like everyone else, she blackened her face with charcoal. Her pale cheeks, nose, and forehead were smudged and messy. Doffing her high-peaked Commissar’s cap, she didn’t wear any head cover but she did have a tactical hood around her neck. Instead of a crimson coat, she wore a standard-issue khaki winter jacket underneath her olive drab Flak Armour chestplate. It was the only piece of armour any of the troops were allowed to wear; shin guards, knee pads, elbow pads, bracers, and helmets were all being left behind. A platoon of around sixty, all clad in medium armour, would generate a great deal of noise. As well, the weight would wear them down on the long march. Stealth and mobility were the key components of the operation. Basic protection was all they could afford, save for the Heavy Weapons Squads and some specialists. Their Flak Armour was imbued with weight-assistant servos which allowed them to carry their larger, heavier weapons, and if they were to bring them they needed the armour. 

Carstensen pushed some of her orange locks behind her ear. Briefly, he green-blue gaze flitted up and met Marsh’s violet eyes. He couldn’t help but smile and he was glad when she quickly returned it.  _ Pay attention, Silvanus _ . Barlocke’s voice was teasing and the tone sent little jolts and shiverings down his spine. I am, Marsh Silas replied in his mind’s voice, although he was certain Barlocke knew he was lying. 

With a plotter, Hyram drew out the route on the map. “It’s very important that we move quickly. I want to be in the hinterland before daybreak. We shall be living hard. By night we shall move and by day we will rest. Eating, smoking, and drinking while moving is strictly prohibited. We cannot afford to leave any kind of waste behind that can be traced. The last thing we need are some gaggle-eyed heretics trying to play soldier following our trail.”

He ran the field quill up to the cove and then tapped it with his finger. “After clearing the road, this will be our first objective. If there is some evidence we can discover here, fine, if not, it will serve as a good campsite and base of operations to send out scouts. Afterwards, we’ll strike north-northwest, pushing deeper into the sector.”

It was an area Bloody Platoon was very familiar with. When they were seconded to the Ordo Hereticus under Inquisitor Barlocke, they staged a massive regimental operation to clear the countryside of potential heretic hideouts. Numerous rockcrete towns and villages, composed of the vestiges of once sprawling Militarum installations, were cleared. Loyal citizens were extricated to Army’s Meadow before being removed to Kasr Sonnen. Those who aided the heretics or were traitors were executed. None of the structures still stood; Arnold Yoxall and many other demolition experts saw to that. 

Hyram put down the quill and folded his hands. “This is a dangerous and difficult mission. No support, no supplies, on our own. What’s more, I must ask ye Shock Troopers to be subdued in your efforts to engage the enemy. Destroying them is vital, but discovering where they dwell, even more so.” The Lieutenant stood up and braced his hands on the tabletop. “But I am  _ highly  _ confident this platoon is up to the task and rest assured,” he said with a smile, “we will  _ definitely  _ have contact with the enemy.” 

Everyone grinned and nodded. Hyram stood up and folded his hands behind his back, resuming an officer’s air. “Honeycutt, brief your field chirurgeons as necessary. This is tough terrain so expect a great deal of rolled and sprained ankles. Bring whatever you have to so every Guardsman can stay in the fight; we can’t spare men to carry another.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Walmsley Major, your men are going to be the difference in every engagement we fight, especially if we have the opportunity to ambush them. I don’t care whether you have to pay your wage or steal it, but bring as much ammunition as possible.”

“Yes, sir!” the elder Walmsley said with a happy smile. 

“Drummer Boy, I want you to square away every Vox-caster we’re bringing with us. This means updated codebooks, frequencies, cells, everything, right down to the switches.”

“Including this one, sir?” 

Drummer Boy reached under the table and dragged up a brand new Vox-caster. Hyram blinked and looked at Marsh Silas in confusion. The platoon sergeant grinned.

“Follow me, sir,” he said.

“The rest of you are dismissed,” Hyram said. While the NCO’s dispersed, Marsh, Hyram, Drummer Boy, and Clivvy went down the hall to the new barracks room. There they found the Whiteshields finishing their preparation. Their faces were darkened, they did not wear helmets, and they were meticulously going over their gear. When they saw part of the Platoon Command Squad enter, they all snapped at attention.

Hyram raised his hand politely. “At ease.”

“Rowley, front and center if ya please.” The young Whiteshield stepped forward, her freckles mask by charcoal smudging. Marsh smiled down at her. “It’s been noted you’ve got yerself a good head for technology. Now, every squad needs a Voxman and that means you Whiteshields need one. You’ve been nominated to carry your squad’s set.”

Her eyes widened as Drummer Boy stepped forward with it. She smiled very wide, as if she was being given a gift.

“Thank you, Staff Sergeant!” she exclaimed. Quickly taking the set and placing it on the table, she ran through the activation functions, flipped through the pages of the codebook Drummer Boy gave her, tested the handset and headset, and clapped her hands together. “What a marvelous machine!”

While Drummer Boy ran her through a few more technical aspects and the rest of the squad congratulated her, Marsh watched proudly. Hyram leaned in. 

“Do you really think her ready?” he whispered.

“Aye, sir, she’s got a good head on her shoulders. We can trust her with that.”

“I pray so.”

The two friends exited the barracks and headed back to their section. As they journeyed through the halls, M36’s slung over their shoulders, they didn’t speak for a few moments. Marsh looked at Hyram who looked worried. The Lieutenant shook his head. “I can’t believe Isaev approved this foray. I wanted this very badly but now I can’t help but question my own decision. What if we go out there and find nothing? I think that shall have the most detrimental impact on the men’s morale. And it’ll make me seem like a deranged fool.”

Marsh scoffed and tapped his friend’s shoulder. 

“Lieutenant Hyram, ya ain’t no fool,” he said in a jovial tone. “I got full confidence in you, sir. Absolute confidence. You ain’t gonna lead us into anything we can’t handle. Bloody Platoon is ready, they’ll go anywhere and they’ll do anything for ya.”

Hyram smiled and looked down at his boots. No matter his expression, he always seemed so very thoughtful. Eventually, they entered their section, shook hands, and the Lieutenant ducked into his quarters. Marsh Silas decided to take a walk through the entire barracks and make sure everyone was ready. Almost every single Shock Trooper was dressed accordingly and prepared their kit correctly. A few went over their weapons a second or third time, ensuring the sights were set corrected and the barrels were clean. Some who carried more than their basic armament sorrowfully parted with their secondary, personal weapons. Hand-crafted clubs were predominantly left behind. A few, like Foley and Logue, would not dare part with their weapons. The former’s heavy double-barreled shotgun was always with him and the latter utilized his modified autopistol more than his M36. Both were strong enough to bear their loads and still carry their extra weapons and ammunition. Marsh Silas wouldn’t force them to leave them behind either; after all, he was bringing the automatic shotgun his old friend used to carry, too. 

The men were not as excited or jovial as they often were before an operation. But this was not a bad thing. Their morale was not low and they were not scared either. Rather, they were focused on the task and understood the grave importance of the mission. Everyone more or less understood Hyram’s misgivings about the overall strategic situation in their sector and were just as determined to root it, if just for the sake of stopping the frequent ambushes. Everything they did was slow, methodical, and deliberate. The way they wrapped the black tape around their bayonet lugs, slowly ground their blades on whetstones, and fastened every loose piece of their wargear with cords was drawn out and professional. It was easy to forget when they were hooting and hollering on the firing line, playing hands of Black Five and taking swigs from their liquor rations, that these men were indeed professionals. Raised from birth to be soldiers, they were not the members of some random tithed regiment or a pitiful Planetary Defence Force: they were _Cadian_ Shock Troopers.   
After checking with every squad, he stopped back in with the Whiteshields. Drummer Boy was gone and Rowley was already wearing the Vox-caster. She held the handset up to her ear and smiled as she tested the frequencies. 

“Station One-Three, this is Station One-Four, over,” she said in a giddy tone.

An exasperated groan came from the other end of the link.

“Roger One-Four, we are receiving for the  _ third time _ , thank you. One-Three out.”

When she spotted Marsh standing in the doorframe, Rowley rushed over and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Thank you, Staff Sergeant, thank you! I am honored you chose me and I shall carry this Vox as if it is a medal! I promise I won’t let ya down!”

“Well and good, Rowley, settle down,” Marsh chuckled, prying her hands off. “Fall in, Fourth Squad.”

All ten Whiteshields lined up and stood at attention, raising their chins and planting the buttstocks of their M36’s on the ground. Marsh walked up and down the line. They did a decent job of outfitting themselves but he saw plenty of rookie mistakes. Going up to Webley, he tightened the bandolier across her chest and the one wrapped around her abdomen so they wouldn’t slide. Graeme was carrying too much. Marsh took out the scarf he was bringing, followed by poor weather coat which was rendered obsolete by their winter coats, and an extra pair of boots he tied onto his rucksack. “Don’t need any o’ that,” Marsh told him and subsequently to the others whose unnecessary gear ended up on the ground. “One thing ya got to bring is all yer extra socks. There’s snow comin’ and your feet may get wet. And you’ll be moving hard, so you’ll sweat. Need ta change your socks whenever we make camp. Dry the wet ones by a fire in camp and then wear them around your neck while we be marchin’.”

When he finished his inspection, he stood in front of them and did his best to appear impressive and commanding. “In the eyes of this here platoon sergeant, you be ready to go out and fight. But don’t get ahead of yourselves. You ain’t Shock Troopers yet. Stay disciplined and follow orders. You’ll be in the center of the column where everyone can see ya but if you happen to get lost, fear not. We’ll figure it out and we’ll come for ya.”

Although their faces were blackened he could see they were excited and nervous. Everyone was twitching with excess energy, their free hands curling up and opening again. They bounced on their feet and their breathing was accelerated. He knew what was happening. Zeal was mingling with fear and each was battling for control. All the training they received over the years was beginning to kick in but they were still wrangling with their emotions. Such was to be expected of the young and inexperienced. But Marsh Silas offered them a very kind smile to let them know he was happy with their performance. Reaching out to Clivvy, he grasped her by the shoulder. “And I’ll be comin’ with ya.” Everyone was excited to hear that and their smiles showed it. Marsh Silas couldn’t help but feel happy about that. “I’ll be with ya as much as I can and that’s a promise I aim to keep. Now, are you ready?”

“We’re ready, Marsh Silas!” they all sang.

“Fall out, join yer mates out yonder and wait for orders. And no smokin’!”

The squad filed out. Marsh waited until they disappeared down the hall to poke his head out. As he expected, Junior Commissar Carstensen was waiting just outside. She pushed herself off the wall and walked into the empty barracks. Both of them stepped away from the entrance so they were out of sight and leaned against the wall. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood in silence and stared at the opposite wall. 

Eventually, Marsh Silas pulled out his pipe. Carstensen took notice and frowned.

“Did you not just forbid them from smoking and yet you will indulge?”

“Nay, I ain’t one to cross orders like that,” Marsh said. He lifted his tabac pouch out and with two fingers pretended to pinch some out. Making a gesture that made it seem he was sprinkling it into the bowl of his pipe, he then procured an invisible match and pretended to strike it. Then, he dipped it into the bowel and took a few puffs on the empty, unlit pipe. When he finished, he grinned at Carstensen. She looked at him as if he completely lost his mind, then sighed, and took the pipe from him. Staring at it for a few moments, she pressed the neck to her lips and took a few fake puffs herself. Acting as if she was holding the smoke in her lungs, she puffed out her cheeks and then released a long breath. 

“You’re a strange man, Silas,” she said as she handed the pipe back. He feigned a few more puffs and then shrugged.

“Strange I am, but you seem to like that,” he said slyly. Carstensen snorted a little and took the pipe back.

“And am I strange?” she asked, turning the pipe over and over in her hands. 

“Different may be a better word,” the platoon sergeant said. 

“You’re not supposed to be different or strange if you are a Commissar,” Carstensen sighed. “You adopt the regiment’s culture and ensure it adheres to the Emperor's will. That is all. If you fail in either regard you are not worthy of the rank.” She turned the pipe around and gently touched the Aquila emblem on the front. A heavy sighed passed her lips. 

Marsh Silas stared at her for a long time. He couldn’t bear to see her sad even if it was masked behind her stern expression and darkened cheeks. So he reached into his kit bag, the square-shaped haversack which hung around his right shoulder, and produced his patrol cap. It was the title given the soft-cover cap issues to all Cadian NCOs. A box hat with a short brim that was straight instead of peaked, it not only denoted their rank but also was an excellent cover to wear during summer or while on watch. Straightening it out and adjusting the rear strap, he stepped in front of Carstensen and placed it on top of her head. Again, he readjusted it and tucked her orange hair back behind her ears so it wouldn’t fall in front of her gaze. 

Stepping back, he held his chin and squinted as if he was deeply scrutinizing her. After a few moments, he shrugged. 

“I can’t find Junior Commissar Carstensen anywhere! Have ya seen her? Ya haven’t, well then, you best get yer M36 and get on line then, trooper.”

Carstensen slowly smiled. Marsh reached down and took her hand. “You fit right in with this pack o’ gunmen. You embody all the values they’re expected to uphold. You’re a Cadian to these men and to me.” Marsh’s feelings grew and he was unable to resist them. He wrapped his arms around Carstensen, pulling her close and holding the back of her head. “It must be a hard thing to come from a faraway place and have to live another way. Like living two different lives. I’ve but one: a Cadian’s life.” 

“It is...not so bad,” Carstensen said, her voice muffled in Marsh’s shoulder. She was holding him back but her voice was somewhat surprised. “This does not make me sad. It is what I expected and wanted, even if Cadian life is unforgiving, martial, and often difficult. But this comradeship, the pride they all feel, it resonates with me, and I am proud to be a part of it even if I feel I fail.”

“Well, then I am happy for that failure.” Marsh smiled at Carstensen as she parted slightly and gazed at him in utter confusion. “If you was just like every other Cadian, you would be mighty boring, wouldn’t ya? If there’s a day that should come where you fit in so well you no longer resemble yerself, that’ll be a sad day for me. Bein’ a bit different, well, methinks that’s a good thing.”

Carstensen blinked, then her gaze softened, and she smiled. The embrace closed once more. Marsh was smiling from ear to ear. The Junior Commissar readjusted and her mouth was by his ear. Her warm breath made him shiver. 

“I expected much when I took up a Cadian’s life but I never expected you. It is a good life, but when I’m with you, it seems ever better.”

They parted slightly and Marsh smiled bashfully.

“Being a Shock Trooper is the greatest duty in the entire Imperium. But it is even better with, well,” he trailed off, lost in her glittering eyes. Instead of finishing his sentence, he leaned in and kissed her. At first, she coiled her arms around his neck but when she pulled him closer. The movement brought her back against the wall. She put her hand on his cheek, keeping Marsh there. Even though he could taste the bitter, ashy charcoal on her lips, he didn’t care. 

Both of them parted again and took a quick breath. “We ought to join the others and make ready to depart,” Marsh breathed. The air between them was heated and his heart was pounding. Carstensen nodded, smiled, and then laughed a little. 

“It appears I have compromised your charcoal.”

Blinking in confusion, Marsh went over to a small palm-sized mirror that was hung on a wooden post between two of the Whiteshields’ bunks. Peering into it, he saw Carstensen had left a handprint in the black on his left cheek. Although the imprint of the palm was more smudged then bare, the fingers left clear trails. Chuckling, Marsh took some from the base of his neck and applied to his cheek. 

“Can’t have them thinkin’ we was up to somethin’.”

“Most certainly not.”

Just as Marsh finished adding to his charcoal cover, a cry ran throughout the barracks.

“Bloody Platoon, we’re moving out!”

A snap of reflexes saw Marsh Silas and Carstensen back into the tunnels. Quickly, they rejoined their comrades, collected their remaining wargear, and waited their turn to clamber up the ladder. Nobody spoke, not even the squad leaders. As soon as one Guardsman was high enough on the ladder another began climbing up. One by one, each soldier disappeared into the bunker above them. A few breathed heavily under the weight of their wargear or from the excitement from heading out once again. Heavy boots thudded on the wooden steps of the ladder. 

When it was finally Marsh’s turn, he instinctively inhaled when he entered the bunker. It was warm down in the tunnels but the bunker’s firing ports and slits remained open. The night air was cold and threatened to snatch the warmth from a trooper’s chest. Assembling outside, Bloody Platoon trundled the slope in a staggered, trickling line. Passing by Guardsmen from other platoons, they exchanged salutes, handshakes, and taps on the shoulder. Brief remarks, such as, ‘try not to get lost out there,’ and, ‘don’t shit in our trenches,’ were exchanged. After drifting through the main compound they finally came to a stop at the main gate. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were waiting for them. 

Lieutenant Hyram conferred with the company commander and executive officer. Meanwhile, the squad leaders arranged the platoon into a tactical column. Upon Marsh’s orders, the Whiteshields and Heavy Weapons Squads were in the center. It would keep the former boxed in and unable to stray if they grew disorientated during the night march. Plus, having the Heavy Weapons Squads in the center would give them flexibility. A quick base of fire would allow the infantry squads to maneuver without having to immediately engage. Attaching itself to First Squad, the Platoon Command Squad would lead the way. Second Squad came in front of the Whiteshields while the Special Weapons Squad came after the second Heavy Weapons Squad. Third Squad would bring up the rear with Junior Commissar Carstensen. Hyram would remain up front like a true combat leader and Marsh would maintain the center. 

After everyone was in line, Marsh waited near Lieutenant Hyram.

“...Second and Third Platoons will maintain alternating shifts as a quick reaction force,” Giles was saying. “If you face overwhelming odds, I’ll send the at-ready platoon out by Valkyrie and will divert as much air power to your location as possible.”

“Thank you, sir. We’ll be maintaining radio silence for the better part of our training mission.” Hyram said this in a careful tone in case Colonel Isaev or any of his staff officers were in earshot. “Whenever we stop, we’ll communicate over a secure Vox-link and then change the codes after the subsequent transmission.”

“Very good. Do whatever you can out there for those Whiteshields,” Captain Giles said. It was dark in the camp and the majority of lights were off per his request. Just in case the heretics were observing them from afar, he wanted to make sure Bloody Platoon was able to exit the camp without being spotted. But Marsh’s eyes were able to adjust and he was able to see the outline of the Captain’s smile. The company commander took Hyram by the shoulder. “Find out whatever you can, but remember what the real mission is: getting back to base alive. And try not to engage in a larger scale action without us. We all want a piece of it too, you know.”

“We’ll save some for you, sir, have no fear,” Hyram said, chuckling a little. They saluted one another. “With your permission, sir, I’ll take my men out.”

Giles nodded. Hyram turned to Marsh Silas. “This mission is a-go. Get them moving.”  
“Bloody Platoon, on the Lieutenant, we’re moving out,” Marsh said out loud. Falling in with the Whiteshields, the column passed through the gate and began marching up Army’s Meadow. For a few minutes, it was a silent march. Waves crashed on the shore and the wind moaned. Black leather boots thudded on the pavement. Yellow flowers, hidden in the dark, swayed and rustled. Here and there, somebody cleared their throat or coughed. The cold air was tense.

Yet, as they set out, there was a quiet glory to it all. Everyone was brimming with excitement and Marsh Silas could feel it radiating off them like their natural heat. It was an undertaking, and with their number standing at around sixty, it was a grave one. But the impeccable veterans survived countless battles and were emboldened by their victories at Kasr Fortis, Army’s Meadow, and the Cove. Strong and determined, they believed they could succeed in this mission. Even without support or numbers, and willingly getting lost in the hinterland, they were undaunted. It was a notion, a feeling, every Guardsmen carried in their hearts. 

Knowing they would cross the bridge for another few minutes, Marsh called on Monty Peck. “How’s about one song before we set off on this adventure?”

“ _ I Come From the Kasr  _ is my fancy.”

“Take the lead, I’ll join ya.” After a moment, Monty Peck and Marsh Silas began singing in low, drawn out tones:

_ “I’ve come from the Kasr, _

_ with a lasgun in my hand, _

_ and I’m goin’ off to battle. _

_ I’ve come from the Kasr _

_ and it is my only dream, _

_ to march across, this Imperium. _

_ I’ve come from the Kasr, _

_ to be a gunman for my Lord, _

_ my service, will only end in death, _

_ o’ my Emperor,  _

_ do not weep for me, _

_ for I’ve come from the Kasr  _

_ with a lasgun in my hand,  _

_ and I’m goin’ off to battle...” _

Both Guardsmen ceased singing when Bloody Platoon began crossing the bridge. Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder and passed the bobbing heads of the men. Army’s Meadow lit up, its trenches, wires, posts, and towers illuminated in stark white light. Silhouettes drifted across the compound, the watchmen stood in their towers and at the checkpoint. Little pinpricks of orange light appeared as Shock Troopers lit lho-sticks. A wave of laughter washed through the air and was quickly snatched away by a gust of wind. He thought heard a prayer, although it sounded close, and was probably somebody in the platoon asking the Emperor for protection. 

***

Bloody Platoon crossed many kilometers up the north road in good time. They stopped only to examine the corpses of the heretics Marsh Silas and Carstensen killed the other day. None of their ilk reclaimed the bodies or even the motorbikes they obtained. A perimeter was established and the pockets of the dead searched. Everything was done carefully so as to not expose themselves to the heretic’s corrupted, bloated flesh. Nothing that could be considered intelligence was discovered. Cleansing prayers and oils were issued to those that touched the bed and the march resumed. 

It was a very dark night. Thick clouds blotted out the moon and there was no ambient light from any of the nearby installations. The mountains and ridges which could be seen for many kilometers during the day were just part of the sable gloom. To the south, Kasr Sonnen shone brightly on its perch. Searchlights scanned the skies, briefly illuminating spires or gunships circling overhead, taking off, or landing. Occasionally, the red and green lights of Valkyries flew by overhead. Basilisk and other artillery pieces were firing in the distance. It sounded like thunder. Before long, a light snow began. Soon, the pavement was covered and sixty sets of booted feet began to  _ crunch, crunch, crunch  _ through the dusting. 

They did not stop. Nobody complained, coughed, sneezed, sang, or spoke. Everyone held their weapons low, ready to bring them at a moment’s notice. Heads turned and turned, scanning the environment, listening and looking for any kind of movement. Multiple times, a halt was ordered because the troops on point thought they heard or saw something. Each of these moments proved very tense; the column came to a complete stop, everyone scurried to the sides of the road, and crouched down. Minutes felt like ages until the stop order was lifted. 

Even with their many halts, Bloody Platoon arrived at the last ambush site within a few hours. Another perimeter was established; Walmsley Major ordered the heavy teams to spread out to cover the roads and other likely approaches. Bullard and Hitch went to the top of the rise for a better view of the landscape. Marsh joined Hyram as they began picking through the pile of corpses. The bloating was over and the flesh was tight on their bones, some of which were without flesh altogether. 

“Blast,” Hyram hissed. “Nothing.”

“What about the trail of the dead up on the rise?” Marsh asked. “Maybe we can learn something from those bodies.”

Hyram agreed and Bloody Platoon left its security position. Pushing up the rise, they maintained a western course. The march was very brief and they hardly traveled half a kilometer before they came to the end of the trail. Many of the Guardsmen stumbled into the craters left from the Marauders' bombs and needed to be helped out. Thankfully, the Emperor ensured nobody was injured. Walking the trail together, Marsh and Hyram tried to make sense of the patterns. Some of the heretics were in bunches, others alone, and many were mangled and blown far off from the munitions. 

Marsh cradled his M36 in his arms and stood at the end of the trail. But Hyram walked it back and forth several times. 

“Yes, yes,” he murmured to himself. “Walk with me, Silas.” The Lieutenant looped his arm around Marsh’s and together they walked back to the rise. Turning on their heels, they marched all the way back. When they returned to Marsh’s original post, Hyram let him go and held his arms. “See?”

“Sir, as much as I  _ enjoy  _ a stroll with my commanding officer, I fail ta see just what was so peculiar about that.”

“The trail curves, don’t you see? It goes straight, straight, straight west for about two-hundred, two-hundred fifty meters, then begins to drift northwest for about one-hundred fifty meters, and then turns directly north for the remainder. They were retreating  _ north _ .”

Marsh examined the trail of corpses and shook his head.

“I don’t mean to doubt ya, sir, but what if they was just trying to avoid the bombs? You’d run every which way to evade them.”

“Correct, they would want to evade them. But the bombers flew south to north; why would the heretics change direction to run in line with the aircraft instead of crossing them to minimize their exposure?”

“Because they be heretics and ain’t half so smart as you and me,” Marsh said with a shrug. 

“There must be something north. If the attackers from the other night also struck north using the road, and if ambushes on the north road are more frequent than in the south, their hideaway must be somewhere in the northern hinterland. Your blanket please.”

Marsh doffed his rucksack, yanked out the blanket bundled, and covered Hyram’s head and shoulders with it. He then ducked his head underneath it as well. The Lieutenant activated his Data-slate and the screen was so bright Marsh had to squint. After studying the map for a little while, Hyram nodded. “We’re changing direction. We shan’t proceed to the Cove; we begin our push north now, following the trajectory of the corpse trail.”

“Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. The Data-slate was deactivated, the blanket returned to Marsh’s rucksack, and the two men rose.

“Let’s move’em out, Staff Sergeant.”


	10. Chapter 10

In the field, whether it was during a battle, training exercise, or a long range patrol, Cadian Shock Troopers constantly sought two crucial elements: cover and concealment. Cover could be as simple as a hefty boulder to crouch behind, a low wall, or the side of a rockcrete building. More often than not, it provided both aspects as it protected a Guardsmen from being shot from most standard weaponry and kept him out of sight. Concealment ranged from anything to a clump of scrub bushes to a sheet metal fence. Anyone hiding among or behind such features would stay out of sight but they would not have the benefit of protection. Even autogun slugs could punch right through metal and most weaponry could gnaw vegetation apart. But it was crucial during any extended period in the field for troops to maintain and capitalize upon both facets to the best of their abilities.

By the Emperor’s will, Cadia’s topography and climates varied widely and this was a boon for the planet’s defenders. In the hinterland north of Army’s Meadow, the land was characterized by ridges, hills, bluffs, crags, ravines, rocks, scrub bushes which survived through the extended winter months, and short stretches of low-standing, gnarled trees. A rapidly changing environment was difficult for enemies to traverse while the Cadians, who trained in these different settings since they were children, knew how to utilize the terrain effectively.

Bloody Platoon hunkered down in a draw for their daytime rest. Two rocky, tree-studded ridges which ran straight for about three hundred meters and curved to the northwest at the end, provided both cover and concealment for the Shock Troopers. Most of the trees were pines with bushy branches, shielding the men from sight and from the sun. On either side, the ridges were high and difficult to cross which would make it difficult for an attack to climb up and shoot down into them. Still, sentries were placed at either end of the column as well as the ridges. Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor erected their Heavy Bolter at the northern side while Albert and Brownlow established their position between two trees at the south. On the western ride, Bullard and Hitch concealed themselves with cloaks and lay prone in high grass. Jupp and Hoole took the eastern side. Each of the ridge sentries would be relieved after two hours by other men in the platoon while the Heavy Weapons squads would alternate on the Heavy Bolters; while the other teams specialized in their specific weapon, they were qualified to fire the storied weapon of the Astartes.

Marsh Silas bunked down on a patch of earth in between two rocks on the western side of the ridge. A tall, full, ancient tree stood between the two rocks and the fallen pine needles made a pleasant cushion underneath his sleeping bag. From this spot, he could see the rest of the platoon. Like him, some of the troopers were choosing to camp under trees or against boulders and slabs of stone in the bottom of the draw. Others embedded themselves on the sides of the rick, digging fighting holes in soil for better cover and concealment. Although the dirt was filled with pebbles, nobody ever dug there before so the earth was easily removed. A few chose elevated spots on the ridges so their holes looked like the mouths to tunnels leading deeper into the ridge. It was easy to laugh at those few Guardsmen because they seemed to be sideways. Others chose natural crevices to bed down in, disappearing from view. 

Everyone took the time to conceal and protect their positions. Those who dug holes mounded the disturbed earth around the rims. Others took heavy rocks, rolling or carrying them to spots which they deemed vulnerable. Fallen branches, particularly those thick with pine needles, were gathered up and used to camouflage their positions. Some skirted up the slopes and hacked away some of the high scrub grass that coated the top of the ridges. These could be used for cushions but a sprinkling on branches or rocks helped them appear more natural. A few small campfires were burning so men could heat up their rations or brew a quick cup of recaf.

Before dawn even broke, Bloody Platoon was entrenched so well some of the men couldn’t even see each other. Marsh Silas could not help but smile proudly at how hard the Guardsmen worked. Even the Whiteshields were diligent, composed, and adept at preparing their positions. More encouraging was how the veterans took the time to assist them, offering advice, helping them collect resources, or even bunking down near them. Conversation, although hushed, was generally amiable. 

It was an incredible relief. One of his fears was Bloody Platoon’s own veteran status; they were a loyal, tight-knit group. Newcomers were very hard to take in sometimes. If presented with other veterans, as they had before, the initial challenge was swiftly overcome. In some cases, there was no choice and they were forced to accept the newcomer. Such was the case with Junior Commissar Carstensen, although she proved herself both in combat and in garrison to be fair as well as brave. An assignee like that was to be welcomed. Whiteshields tended not to survive for too long and nobody wanted to get attached. Not to mention there was a subtle arrogance in the Cadian Shock Troopers; although they were Whiteshields once they did not have much sympathy for the inexperienced soldiers. Not only had these men earned their rights as Shock Troopers they survived enough battles to become veterans holding an esteemed position with their regiment. As for the rookies, they needed to prove themselves and in doing so they did not last for long. Nobody wanted to befriend them because a Whiteshield overzealousness and lack of experience would get them killed. Losing friends was difficult, no matter how experienced or inexperienced a Guardsman was. If it could be avoided, then it was. 

But the acknowledgement of the Whiteshields’ presence, the very fact they were talking with them and working alongside them, showed Marsh Silas his men possessed hope for them. They believed they were sufficiently trained and smart enough not to get killed in a random skirmish or by upsetting a Commissar. What’s more, their willingness to contribute to their training showed they were invested in their success. Or maybe it was just pragmatism; by strengthening their weakest link their overall chances of survival were better. Either way, Marsh Silas took it as a good sign and sat back with a happy smile. The only thing that could have made it better was a long smoke on his pipe. 

But Drummer Boy appeared with something just as good: cooked rice with strips of Grox meat laid on the top. Stream rose and wafted in the cold air from the warm mess tin. The Voxman knelt in front of him and passed it over.

“How kind o’ ya,” Marsh said, nodding. Drummer Boy grinned in a childish sort of way. 

“Jus’ how ya like it!” he said and then returned to his fire.

Even with his gloves on, the platoon sergeant’s hands were cold and he was grateful to hold the hot tin. But he took out his own mess kit, offered a prayer and thanks for the food, and began shoveling the rice into his mouth. He always ate half the rice first, just to enjoy it on its own, before mixing it with the meat. After finishing his meal, he decided to take a walk through the draw to see how the platoon was settling in. First, he was going to give Drummer Boy the mess tin back. The Platoon Command Squad was mostly settled in a semicircle of rocks which had a fallen log in front of it, linking end to end. Babcock, having planted the flag into the dirt, took up a hatch and began to hack it in half. When he finished, he pushed the two halves slightly out, making a little path in between them. Then, the Color Sergeant covered them with pine needles. When he finished, he stood with his arms akimbo and nodded in a satisfied manner.

Within this little circle, Hyram against a rock with Drummer Boy’s Vox-caster. He was holding the handset to his ear and bouncing his leg. Meanwhile, the Voxman tended a very small fire in a pit. Above it was a cooking grate with the pot filled with rice on top of it. Next to it was the skillet cooking the meat. Filling another mess tin with rice and laying the cooked strips on top, Drummer Boy took it over to Hyram. The Lieutenant nodded as he took it. With one hand, he began taking conservative spoonful’s and kept the handset against his ear with the other. Across from him, Carstensen furnished her sleeping bag against the stump from which the log fell. Having brought a spare blanket, she folded it up and used it as a pillow. Honeycutt was not with them; he was on the other side of the draw within a circle of fallen stones. It was a makeshift aid station; he and the field chirurgeons were tending the few rolled ankles the men suffered during the hard march. 

Hyram’s position offered a commanding view of Bloody Platoon. As he sat down beside his platoon leader, Marsh could not only see their high spirits but also feel it. Those who weren’t already asleep were chatting amiably in hushed tones as if they hadn’t been hard marching for several nights and sleeping in the rough. Everyone was very dirty, their faces and uniforms stained with mud, dust, and snow. Most of the men were already growing beards, including Marsh Silas. His stubble was very thick and was more brownish than blonde. Hyram was also growing a great deal of scruff; stubble coated his cheeks but his goatee was very thick. Nobody washed since before they left camp so everybody bore an amalgamated scent of body stench and the odor of the landscape. A lack of hygiene was important during prolonged field missions; many smells carried on the wind or if an enemy was close they could sniff out something like sterile cleansing powder or shaving cream. None of the men were allowed to smoke, wash, clean their teeth, or use any kind of substance with a strong scent. Even the cooking fires were kept low to minimize the smoke trail’s profile and scent. 

The Guardsmen did not go out missions like these too often and relished the opportunity. Everyone understood the necessity for stealth and how precarious they were because of their lack of support. Although it was never too far away, as Cadia was a living, breathing fortress, it made the stakes feel much higher. All prayed to the Emperor for success; Marsh Silas could hear them murmuring as they prayed over their meals or before they went to sleep for the day. But all were eager for the challenge and glad for another opportunity to better serve the Emperor. 

But there was one Guardsman who was struggling. Unbeknownst to Marsh Silas, the regimental pict-capturer, Valens, had requested to tag along during the mission at the last moment. Colonel Isaev approved it and Hyram accepted. Although the Lieutenant ordered the platoon sergeant to be informed, the word was never passed along. It wasn’t until the first morning they made camp that Marsh Silas discovered the out of place trooper. 

Valens was a decent soldier and Bloody Platoon possessed a modicum of respect for him. During the Raid on Kasr Fortis, Valens was separated from the Regimental Command Platoon. While he could have sat at the casualty collection point, he came along instead. He fought just as hard and bravely as any line Guardsman did that night. For his actions, he received the Eagle Ordinary and every agreed he earned it. But that was his first time in combat for almost a year and now, months later, this was Valens’ first time on a mission. Like any Cadian, he possessed all the necessary training. But because his duty required him to snap picts instead of fight, some of his infantry skills atrophied. Just as Marsh looked his way, the man tried to sheer off the edge of his fighting hole and instead got the blade of his 9-70 stuck in an exposed root. Somehow, it was stuck so deeply that when he yanked on it he instead fell back into his hole. When the fellow appeared again, he was rubbing the back of his head and his hair was filled with dirt. Embarrassed, he averted Marsh’s gaze and freed his entrenchment tool.

Hyram put down the handset, sighed, and took up his mess tine.

“I knew I shouldn’t have agreed.”

“Rest o’ the platoon is doin’ just fine, sir. Their confidence gives great cheer ta me, sir.”

“To me as well,” Hyram said, his mouth full of food. A few bits of rice fell from his lips and caught his beard. Marsh chuckled; the platoon leader tended to be a prim and proper sort of fellow. When he put aside manners and acted like a tough old soldier, it always made Marsh feel very glad. “I’m confident we shall find something soon.”

“Woe to whatever we find, we shall make swift, bloody work outta it!” Marsh said, elbowing his friend. Hyram grinned confidently as he finished his meal. The platoon sergeant looked across him at Carstensen, who was making the sign of the Aquila. Laced between her fingers was a string of prayer beads, although their colors were not as muted as the beads Cadians usually carried. They alternated between red, gold, blue, and green beads. Even as she made the sign of the Aquila, she seemed to squeeze these beads with a particular intensity. It was unmatched by her expression which was calm. Her eyelids fluttered a little, almost as if she was about to fall asleep. Both lips moved ever so slightly as she recited the words. When she finished, she put the beads away in a meticulous, regimented way and sat back robotically. Every movement she made was so articulated and precise. Marsh became lost in that for a time, admiring Carstensen’s training but also her drive to live so rigorously.

Hyram leaned into view, his brows drawn curiously. 

“I said have you been to see the Whiteshields this morn?”

“Huh? Oh, no, sir. I’ll do so immediately.”

“See that you do. They pull watch just like the rest of us, but ensure whenever one of them does you are with them. Just because we are on a working mission does not mean they are not being mentored.”

“Aye, sir.”

Marsh left his empty tin beside Drummer Boy and found the Whiteshields were not too far from his own space. Having claimed a patch of bare earth with some decent protection from rocks to their south, they dug a series of fighting holes that could be easily accessed from one another and interlocking fields of fire towards the southern half of the draw. When he stepped up to the first hole, he found everybody was asleep except for Sergeant Clivvy, Rowley, and Yeardley. Rowley was fiddling with her Vox-caster with a great deal of enthusiasm. Checking the handset, she grinned and looked at Marsh Silas.

“Staff Sergeant, I’m listening to after-action reports from the far northern front!”

Marsh knelt at the edge of her hole and rested his arms on his knees. 

“I pray it is good news.”

“Indeed, sir!”

“Keep your voice down, now,” he said with an earnest chuckle. Rowley’s eyes popped a little, clapped her hand over her mouth, then removed it to hold one finger up to her lips.

“Yes, sir,” she said, her finger still in front of her mouth. Marsh chuckled again and slid into Clivvy’s hole.

“Staff Sergeant, we’re in a good position to support the second Heavy Bolter team,” she said as she moved to the side of the hole. “Our visibility regarding the southern approach is very good.”

“Good work, although don’t neglect the verticality of your position.” 

Clivvy blinked a little.

“Verticality, sir?”

“Up and down, you see,” Marsh said, masking his excitement that he knew a word someone else didn’t. Hyram’s lessons were paying off after all! He pointed up the northern ridge. “You’re in a good spot for a reverse-slope defense, but a couple o’ enemy sharpshooters on the opposite ridge could fire down into ya quite easily. You may want to drag one o’ them fallen logs over here and cover it up.”

“Yes, sir!”

Clivvy scurried off. She was keen to follow orders but he was beginning to sense she was the kind of squad leader who would take on another burden instead of delegating it to a subordinate. That was both good and bad; a leader like that showed drive, initiative, and a refusal to abuse their limited authority. But, they were nine other individuals they needed to account for. Doing everything herself would leave them without enough work and they would miss out on lessons learned. A squad leader needed to  _ command _ and they couldn’t do that if they were busying themselves with every issue. 

Instead of saying something, Marsh Silas let it go. The Whiteshields needed some sleep and it was not a big issue. His eyes settled on Yeardley who was looking at a pict-capture. He seemed troubled. Marsh slid into the hole beside him, pressing his shoulder against the teenager. Without saying a word, Yeardley held the pict in front of him. In it were two middle-aged Cadian officers, both of them wearing low-peaked soft-cover caps and dress uniforms. Both stood with their hands folded behind their backs but their smiles denoted a familiarity with one another.

“Yer mama and papa?” Marsh asked as Yeardley withdrew the pict.

“Aye, taken before they was sent off to some faraway world. Whether they live or not, I am unsure, but I pray to the Emperor they are.” He sighed and tucked the pict into one of the box-pouches fastened to his belt. “I must say, Staff Sergeant, I’m a bit afraid out here. Does that make me a poor Guardsman?”

“I thought the same for a great deal of time. But a good friend o’ mine taught me the ability to accept your fear and still act regardless o’ it, makes a mighty fine Guardsman.” Marsh chuckled, remembering Barlocke fondly. “Aye, any servant o’ the Emperor can do good that way. It ain’t easy. Nothin’ ever is but if you can do it once, you can do it again, and again, until the mission is complete.”

_ You’ve become rather sagely, Silvanus _ . Marsh grinned and thought some of Barlocke’s wisdom had truly bit into his bones. Yeardley smiled a little and the platoon sergeant jostled the lad by his shoulder. “You fought well during the last firefight. Keep bringin’ that spirit into battle and you’ll be a Shock Trooper soon enough.”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

In any other circumstance, Marsh Silas would have departed and made his report to Lieutenant Hyram. But seeing the lad so small in his hole, his knees pulled to his chest, his overcoat drawn over his legs, his single hand exposed and holding the pict, his crop of soft blonde hair falling down over his eyes, Marsh found he couldn’t move. 

For a long while, he simply stared at the boy soldier. He didn’t quite look like a Guardsman or even a Whiteshield for that matter. Yeardley seemed too small both in height and weight. Even after all the physical exercise and strength training, he hadn’t seemed to bulk up at all. Was it just because such little time passed since his arrival or was it merely his youth? Marsh began to wonder if he appeared in such a way to the old salts when he first arrived. Although, he didn’t have the same opportunity as Yeardley and his compatriots. There were few veterans aside from the officers and senior NCOs in the 540 th Youth Corps. Most of the older Whiteshields, men and women who were a year out from adulthood and entering the Shock Troops, were quite experienced too. All the older hands treated him as Bloody Platoon behaved when this batch joined the platoon. The opportunity to work alongside and train with veterans was great and dangerous. Just what did that do to a young man’s mind?

“Tell me, lad, what is Kasr Polaris like these days?”

“You’ve not been back, Staff Sergeant?”

“I left but twice. Once for the Month of Making and the other was...” Marsh sighed and smiled. “Do the young ones still go out to fetch the seaweed from the sand when the tide rolls away?”

Yeardley beamed brightly. If he possessed any doubts about Marsh’s home Kasr they were truly quashed then.

“Aye! But the factorum front has grown along the seaside so you have to walk further out than ever before. It is not so bad, though.”

“We used ta have ours over rice.”

“Us too!” Yeardley laughed. “Once our training period for the day ended all the boys in the barracks would rush to collect some. The cook was a lil’ Ratling fellow and he used to give the boy who collected the most seaweed a block o’ chocolate as a reward.”

Marsh laughed. Scenes of his youth, of clinging to his mother’s hand as they journeyed to the waterfront and bent over in the wet sand for seaweed, came flooding back. Many families or trainees from the barracks came out like that. Food was often so bland they searched for anything to add flavor to their meals. Even rice, a delicious rarity, sometimes needed an extra touch for flavor. Although Marsh’s family came into some wealth before he was moved off-world, his mother insisted on collecting the seaweed rather than going to one of the local eateries to purchase food. Having lived a soldier’s life, Marsh knew that was born from her experiences in the ranks. Guardsmen had few possessions and needed many things, some of which was not provided by the Astra Militarum. Whatever a soldier didn’t have, he bought it, made it, found it, and occasionally, stole it. Such habits were difficult to shake. But his mother also said going out to find something built character and shaped one’s resolve. Relying on ‘establishments,’ as she called them with a fair amount of disdain, did nothing to prepare a young soldier for the grim realities of war.  
For a long while after the majority of Bloody Platoon fell asleep, Marsh stayed up and chatted with young Yeardley. The two shared many stories; avoiding Commissars while looking for extra rations, staying up after curfew to practice maintenance on an M36, successes and failures during war games, and the hard but happy life youths experienced in a place like Kasr Polaris. 

“Each time my father returned home, he would blend in with a crowd of other officers. He would appear to pass by our home, one o’ them big fortified mansions the nobility has, but stop just shy o’ passin’ by completely. Then he’d come runnin’ up to the steps. Got me every single time. What about you lad, did you...” Marsh looked over at Yeardley. The Whiteshield had fallen asleep, his head leaning against the wall of the fighting hole. After regarding him for a moment, he smiled and tugged his overcoat over his chin. 

Marsh Silas climbed out of the hole and surveyed the Whiteshields once again. All of them were sleeping. Even Clivvy, who completed her mission to fortify the position, was curled up in the bottom of her hole. There was nothing under her head; noticing her gloves were not on her hands, he took these, gently lifted her head, and slid them underneath. Somehow, Graeme removed his blanket while slumbering so the platoon sergeant put it back on. Tattersall, Leander, and Merton were sleeping in the same hole. Side by side, they looked like three wooden planks beside one another. Marsh adjusted the blanket over them so each one was covered equally. Rowley was still awake but just barely. Her head drooped as she continued to listen to the handset. Dropping down into her hole, he gently took it from her hand and hooked it back on the Vox-caster. “Get some sleep, lass.”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” she said sleepily, her eyelids fluttering. Marsh helped her lay down, took off, laid her head on her rucksack, and drew a blanket over her. Climbing out of the hole, he walked to the center of the draw and surveyed the entire position. Everyone was sleeping for the sentries. They were tucked away in their nooks, holes, between bushes, under trees, up among the rocks, or on the ground in camouflaged positions. A cool, gentle wind blew over the draw. Snowflakes began to flutter down. Hands on his hips, Marsh smiled and nodded. 

He marched over to his own position, climbing onto his sleeping bag, and drew a blanket over him. Planting his large rucksack against the tree, he leaned back against it like it was a feather pillow. Already, the snow was beginning to accumulate in the spots uncovered by tree branches. He was still smiling. Being with the platoon on a mission in the grand landscape of Cadia made him very happy. Just as he began to close his eyes, he heard approaching feet. Carstensen appeared, her orange locks in disarray and her face still smudged. Without speaking, she came over and sat beside him. For a moment, their eyes locked pleasantly. Marsh lifted his blanket and she slid in beside him. He made room against the rucksack for her. After sharing a smile, the pair fell asleep.

***

Marsh felt something cool on his cheek. He opened his eyes partially and checked his wristwatch. It was around sunset. Looking up, the sky was a grayish-orange. Snow was still falling lightly but the wind shifted. A great deal swept underneath the branches and coated the blanket he and Carstensen were under. Despite the layer of snow, he felt comfortable and the Junior Commissar was very warm beside him. Turning to look at her, he found her nestled against the rucksack with her face against Marsh’s shoulder. One hand was drawn near her cheek while the other was on the platoon sergeant’s chest. Her mouth was open slightly and her breath came out in small white puffs. He smiled, blinked, and remembered somebody was standing at his feet.

As much as he wanted to stay, he knew he should take a look at the position again. Carefully, he extricated himself from her grasp and slid out from under the blanket. He tucked it back into place, put on his watch cap, collected his M36, and began wandering up the draw. Coming through the snowy murk was Lieutenant Hyram. 

“Ah, I was just coming for you,” he said, then looked around. “Where is the Junior Commissar?”

“My position,” Marsh answered. “She came to...ask me a question and decided to stay there instead.”

Hyram, wearing a donated watch cap, eyed him warily. 

“Well, it’s time for your watch. Choose two of the Whiteshields and relieve Northmore and Fleming up on the east ridge. We move out in one hour.” 

“Aye, sir.”

Hyram turned on his heel and marched back into gray gloom. As Marsh watched him go, Barlocke’s fragment hummed. A vibrating sensation passed through his mind.  _ I think he knows. You’re not a very good liar. _ Marsh grumbled as he turned around. “Hey, I convinced the Lord Inquisitor there was no letter, didn’t I?” he hissed. Even though everyone around him was still asleep, he did his best to stay quiet.  _ Hm, fair. _

Marsh approached the Whiteshields and knelt next to Clivvy’s hole. She was still curled up. He reached down and shook her gently. “Rouse yourself, troop. Grab Webley and let’s go.”

He waited a few paces away. A few minutes later the two Whiteshields appeared, groggy and dirty. Both of them donned black knit caps, tugged them low over their ears, and checked their weapons. The trio went to the softest slope leading up the eastern ridge and began climbing up. Some parts were steeper and they had to dig their heels in or grasp exposed roots to pull themselves upwards. 

When Marsh finally scaled the top, he saw a blur of movement. Northmore spun around and brought his M36 to bear on him. “Easy, Shock Trooper,” Marsh whispered.

“Sorry, Marsh Silas.”

“No movement?”

“Aye, none.”

“You’re relieved.”

Fleming and Northmore waited for the two Whiteshields to crawl to the top before descending themselves. The observation post was on the crest of the ridge along a row of scrub brushes, a fallen tree, and a larger boulder on the right flank. Marsh took the left while Clivvy slithered to the center and Webley planted herself on the right. Everyone lay prone and situated themselves as comfortably as they could on the uneven terrain, rocks, sticks, and snow. 

Tugging out his magnoculars, Marsh scanned the landscape. The hinterland was covered with a blanket of snow. Even in the low light of the setting sun, the snowfall would provide a wonderful outline to anything or anyone moving across the countryside. After Marsh finished his initial scan, he lowered his scope and looked at the others. “Keep an eye out fer small movements; low crawling, folks ducking, moving quick-like from place to place. You see somethin’, you call it. An’ don’t fall back ta sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said. 

Keeping watch was a boring detail but Marsh was used to it after so many years. It gave him some time away from the platoon which was very rare. He loved being among the men but like any person he enjoyed a moment alone. Like his late night showers, going on watch gave him some breathing room. Of course, with Clivvy and Webley present he didn’t have it exactly but he didn’t mind. After sleeping for so long with Carstensen beside him he was in a rather good mood. 

But the two Whiteshields weren’t. Each time he looked over at them, he found their expression tired and disinterested in their duty. Ten minutes dragged without any kind of movement. Not even the birds stirred from their perches in faraway trees. 

“Is this to be a Guardsman’s life?” Webley eventually asked. “Training, long marches, looking at nothing, and occasional combat?”

“Did yer insructors tell ya you’d be plunging into battle for the Imperium as soon as you left the barracks?” Marsh asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “They all say that because they want you to be ready for anything. Battle is always upon Cadia’s shores but think o’ it as the wind. Some days, the wind blows very hard and lasts from dawn til dusk. Other days, you might have some little winds all throughout the day. On some, the wind is terrific but doesn’t last very long. Wind can be gentle, too, and sometimes a day comes when there ain’t no wind at all.”

Marsh looked over at the pair, who were looking back at him blankly. He smiled warmly. “You’ll get another taste o’ combat soon enough. You’ll be ready for it. You’ll learn to appreciate these quiet times, though. Look for a fight long enough and it’ll find you.”

Both of the Whiteshields nodded. Marsh did not want to lecture them for too long. He was like them once, wondering when he would have his chance. Granted, he and his friends didn’t have to wait long before they were thrust in the fray. He wondered if he should tell them it was going to get bad, but upon seeing their refreshed faces he decided not to. He was confident they understood the coming battles were going to be glorious but gruesome affairs. 

Just as he raised his magnoculars again, Webley faced him.

“Does the Lieutenant hate us?” 

“Shush, Webley!” hissed Clivvy. Just from the Whiteshield Sergeant’s urgent tone Marsh knew this was a conversation the rookies were having often. He was not surprised. Sighing, he set the magnoculars down and moved over so he was between the two. With a quick gesture, he ordered them to come closer. Both sat down on either side of him. 

“Lieutenant Hyram has a lot on his shoulders. Comes with having such a big mind,” he tapped the side of his head for emphasis. “I have a small one so I tend not to worry so much.”  _ Well, that’s not strictly true _ . Marsh resisted the urge to tell Barlocke to shut his trap. “The platoon leader is trusted with the lives of many troops and he is expected to send those troops into battle. It is a burden all leaders bear although some more lightly than others. For Hyram, it is heavy, for he knows what must be done but he does not want to waste lives.”

He pressed his hands together and leaned forward. “He doesn’t hate you. He just doesn’t want you to die, that’s all. You’re not as experienced as the others so he has to mind ya, just like I mind ya. Me and Hyram, you see, we’re a couple o’  _ minders _ .”

“And the Junior Commissar, too?” Webley asked. 

“Oh no, you best hope she never has to mind ya, for if she has to that means you’ve done somethin’ wrong.” This he said with a nervous, slightly exasperated chuckle.

Marsh put a hand on each of their shoulders and smiled kindly. “No, nobody here hates you. They just don’t want anythin’ bad to happen to you. You two have a lot in common with him, even if you are just the squad leader and the assistant. You’ve got people depending on ya for leadership and guidance. You can’t just give that to them when times are easy. No matter how tough things get, stick with’em. Teach’em things.”

He leaned back, his smile growing a little more somber. “And to teach folks things, you need to learn things yerself. My teacher bothered me to no end, talked me up until the late hours, and made answering questions difficult. Sometimes, he posed questions and ideas that simply didn’t have answers, jus’ ta get me thinking.” He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. Snowflakes landed on his brown, collected in his eye sockets, and clung to his beard. Behind the thick, gray clouds were swathes of pink-orange sunlight. “Maybe we don’t exist...” he murmured, his violet eyes lost in the beauty above him. 

When he looked back down at the pair, their faces were stoic but their eyes glittered resolutely. They understood. 

“Marsh Silas,” Bullard said over the micro-bead. “I’ve got movement, northwest.”

Without thinking, the platoon sergeant slid down the ridge, ambled across the draw, and scurried up the opposite ridge. By the time he arrived, Hyram was already at Bullard and Hitch’s position. Sliding in next to them, he raised his magnoculars. Bullard read off the bearing and soon he saw a dark little shape, then two, and then three. Eventually, he counted ten figures heading north. Their clothing was ragged but their movement was experienced; they knew the lay of the land and moved comfortably through it. Constantly, they turned their heads and looked around. Moving at a half-crouch, they used the terrain for cover as best they could but were forced into the open often. As they moved, their direction changed and once they were parallel with the draw they shifted directly north.

Hyram lowered his own magnoculars and jotted the notes down in his logbook. 

“We’ve got them,” he said with a rugged triumph in his voice. “Marsh Silas, get every ready to move. As soon as the hour is up, we’re moving out.”

“Sir, we might lose’em,” Bullard said. “The trail might go cold, even with all this snow. Permission for Hitch and myself to tail’em? That way we can relay intelligence back to you and with just us two, we’ll keep a very low profile.”

Hyram considered it for a few moments. His violet eyes met Marsh’s.

“You’re going with them,” he ordered. Marsh grinned; he hoped Hyram was going to say that. “You’ll need a Voxman. Take your pick of the lot.”

“The Whiteshields need experience. I’ll take Rowley.”

“No disrespect there, Marsh Silas,” Hitch said in a chiding tone, “but even after so much training one Whiteshield only makes half a Shock trooper.”

“Take two, then,” Hyram said. “Be quick and  _ safe _ about this. You have a map? Good. Take only what you need. One ration per. Go.”

Marsh, Bullard, and Hitch hurried back into the draw. Each one of them deposited their excess wargear at their stations, and prepared to set out. Marsh fetched the two Whiteshields, who were both surprised but excited to be taken out. Some of the other Guardsmen in Bloody Platoon promised to carry their gear, a few quick goodbyes and standing orders were shared, and the five-man party set out. Bullard took point, followed by Rowley, Yeardley, Hitch, and Marsh took up the rearguard. As he ushered them out, he glanced back at his own position in the draw. Carstensen was just rising from the sleeping bag, still blinking sleep from her eyes. When he saw her, he paused involuntarily. His lips twitched into a smile and he waved a little bit. She did not smile or wave, only nodding. 

Catching up to the team, Marsh exited the draw, labored up the slope, and was soon on level ground. Everyone kept very low and scurried to a berm. Bullard didn’t immediately lead them north; instead, he led them west, gently changing direction the further they strayed from the camp. In case they were followed, he didn’t want to leave a trail that led directly back to the others. Stopping to confer with Marsh Silas with the map, they were able to pick up the trail and travel parallel to it, staying within sight of the tracks but not treading on them directly. 

Again, they pressed on but only for a short distance. Bullard flashed his hand, bringing them to a stop. Crawling to the top, he peered down his long-las scope and checked the area. With a wave, he led them on. They hurried over the berm, keeping low as they darted to the next hill. Booted feet thudded and crunched in the snow. Ragged breath passed through their lips, small puffs of white appearing in front of their tactical hoods. 

It was a thrilling chase, a clandestine pursuit. Marsh enjoyed every second of it. Although Rowley was struggling under the weight of her Vox-caster, she kept pace and didn’t complain. Yeardley pressed on doggedly, while the two marksmen handled themselves very well. Bullard and Hitch were attuned to moving through the land quietly and stealthily. Every movement they made was fluid and experienced. Marsh and his pupils emulated them in every way. 

They couldn’t see their prey but the trail they left behind was slowly disappearing in the snow. Fresh flakes were already filling the boot prints. 

“We may have to pull back if we lose the trail,” Marsh whispered when they stopped to ensure they weren’t spotted again. Bullard was at the top of the rise, half his body over the crest and his legs back on their side. When he finished looking, he slithered down and shook his head.

“No, I got’em now. We ain’t gonna lose’em.”

Bullard and Hitch were excellent trackers on top of their primary duties. They could read the terrain far better than Marsh Silas or any other man in the platoon could. He trusted them and didn’t dispute their claim. After crossing the rise, they proceeded for another five hundred meters, stopping only when they needed to check their surroundings. As quick as they were, night was beginning to fall quickly. Fresh, dark gray clouds filled the gaps and soon the fleeting sunlight was snuffed out. Plunged into darkness, the team pressed on. 

Eventually, when the team was well over a kilometer away from the draw, Bullard halted them again. They came to a series of bluffs, one of which stretched in a semicircle to the front and right flanks. Bullard crawled to the crest, remained only for a moment, and then carefully crept halfway down. Marsh could just make him out. The sniper shouldered his long-las, then made a looping gesture with his hand, pointing up and over the crest of the bluff. Then, he used his two primary fingers to make a walking motion on his opposite palm. Finally, he began flashing all ten of his fingers, making a fist, then opening it, closing it, and opening it. He repeated it ten times. 

Marsh’s heart began beating faster. Pointing with the flat of his hand, he ordered every to the top. They crawled up, side by side, moving as quietly as he could. At the top, he gazed through his magnoculars. Across the bluff was a wide valley only marked by a few rocks and scrub bushes. Walking through it was a column of heretics, clad in the same apparel as the scouting party. That part was just joining the others, halting briefly at the head to confer with whoever was leading. 

Taking the opportunity, Marsh counted them out for himself. He recounted again and then a third time. One hundred fifty heretics were heading to the southeast. 

“Rowley, call it in,” Marsh Silas ordered.


	11. Chapter 11

Cadia was besieged by a myriad of foes. From the horrifying and abominable dregs the Eye of Terror produced to foul xeno war parties attempting to make their mark on the Imperium’s Gate. In response, the Cadian Shock Troops not only had to be zealous in their faith, metered in their emotions, and courageous in their hearts, they needed a diverse array of combat qualifications. Laying an ambush was not how the average Cadian preferred to engage their foe but it was a skill they were taught nonetheless. While they would never be as proficient as other specialized regiments, they were capable enough against ragtag hinterland heretics. 

The party of heretics was moving slowly across the land, allowing Marsh Silas and his small party to rejoin Bloody Platoon quickly. Everything was quiet but hurried as the Guardsmen moved into position along the path of the incoming enemies. Despite the darkness, Hyram chose the ground well: a shallow draw with a steep, extended ridge on the southern side and a crop of tightly packed jagged rocks on the north side. It was an advantageous position with two nearly impassable topographical entities funneling the heretics through the comparably passable draw. Although there were still boulders and vegetation within the draw, it was a far easier path than traversing the steeper obstacles. 

Marsh Silas joined Hyram as he individually placed every soldier and team in the platoon. First, he ordered Walmsley Major and Minor, along with Third Squad, to take up a position fifty meters into the draw, which placed them about three-quarters of the way through. Forming a line behind a fallen log and some rocks, they camouflaged their position with bushes, crushed leaves, and branches covered in pine needles. The remainder of the platoon were placed along the top of the southern ridge overlooking the path. In the center, Sudworth and Lowe entrenched with their Autocannon while Albert and Brownlow erected their Heavy Bolter at the end of the ridge. This ensured automatic fire at the front, center, and rear of the enemy column. Corporal Olhouser and Snyder, having recovered from their wounds enough to rejoin Bloody Platoon, planted their mortar twenty meters back from the ridge. After gauging the distance, they zeroed in so they could drop shells directly into it. 

Grenadiers were placed in decent perches so as to scatter the enemy and line Guardsmen were evenly displaced between them. Because the enemy lacked vehicles, Foster, Ledford, Knaggs, and Fletcher were forced to desert their own heavy weapons and join the line as regular Guardsmen. Of course, these men saw themselves as highly skilled and especially trained to operate such devastating and effective armaments. To be asked to pick up the standard M36 which they carried almost as a formality, a completion of their uniform as they liked to joke, was almost insulting. Such was the way of the little divisions within a platoon. But, they did not complain nor did they object. Like good Cadian soldiers, they joined their mates on the firing line and prepared to fight. 

The long-las team, Bullard and Hitch, climbed to the highest point of the ridge. It was nothing more than a pile of stones, moved there by some great geographic cataclysm millennia ago. Forming a kind of peak, it provided a three-hundred sixty degree view of the landscape while still allowing them to look down into the draw. As well, they were able to maintain micro-bead range so they did not have to detach one of the Voxmen from their squads. With the advantage of high ground and long-range optics, the pair kept a lookout for the approaching enemy. 

Sergeant Clivvy and the Whiteshields were placed at the western end of the line with Albert and Brownlow. In the event the enemy were not cut down in the initial fusillade and were able to escape, the Whiteshields were to rapidly descend the slope and cut them off. Such a position resulted in very close action, often coming down to hand to hand combat. It was a tremendously honorable task and Marsh Silas was very proud Hyram chose their squad for the duty. He could tell they were nervous but excited. All ten Whiteshields wanted to make their platoon leader proud and earn their place in the unit.

Hyram, Marsh Silas, and Carstensen went up and down the line multiple times to ensure everybody was in position. Such veterans did not require strict supervision; they were well-versed in their trade. Troopers placed fragmentation grenades and charge packs on top of rocks beside them or even on top of the ones they crouched behind. It made their ammunition and munitions much quicker to access than digging through their cartridge belts. Everyone fixed bayonets without orders, it being second nature to do so. Many took out their trench knives or fighting knives and planted them in the earth. It was a precaution in case it came down to hand to hand combat although everyone was confident it would not come down to that. 

Although it was a hasty effort, Bloody Platoon was ready within minutes. Orders were given to remain silent. Hyram and Marsh Silas crawled to the center of the position near Sudworth and Lowe. Both men carefully inspected the Autocannon one last time before checking the feed. Marsh looked past them to see everyone ranging and zeroing their sights on the ground below. When they were finishing attuning their scopes, everyone dropped down. 

Marsh rolled onto his back and looked at Hyram. The Lieutenant briefly inspected his Data-slate one more time before tucking into one of his pouches. He reached over and tapped Marsh on the shoulder. 

“Get yourself over to the Whiteshields, I want you present so they don’t do anything rash.”

Hyram gave Sergeant Clivvy explicit orders not to make any kind of movement until she was ordered to. She agreed and passed this onto her squad but the Lieutenant was still concerned. Either he thought she was going to let her personal zeal overcome her and disobey his orders or she would be unable to prevent her squad from charging. Marsh was disappointed Hyram still didn’t trust them entirely. He understood they were still very green on all accounts but he trusted him; he wanted that to be enough for the platoon leader. The fact it wasn’t made him feel low, but he crushed such feelings for the sake of the mission. 

“Yes sir.”

Marsh Silas turned to leave but Hyram snatched his webbing, halting him in his tracks. The Lieutenant brought him close. The platoon sergeant expected his commanding officer to bequeath one final order. Instead, he smiled faintly.

“Be careful, my friend.”

Instantly, Marsh Silas smiled and then tapped Hyram on the shoulder. 

“Yes, sir.”

He scurried down the line, passing many low, crouching forms. Walking past him was Junior Commissar Carstensen. It was dark but her imposing figure and commanding stride were quite noticeable. As they passed, right shoulder to right shoulder, Marsh reached out and took her unarmored hand. Luckily, she had not drawn her Bolt Pistol yet and thus his fingers slipped easily between hers. She stopped quickly and turned halfway. Knowing he couldn’t speak aloud, Marsh raised her hand and kissed the back of it. Carstensen’s face was barely visible and he wished it wasn’t. All she did was squeeze his hand before slipping her hand out of his. And like that, Marsh was instantly focused on his task once more. 

Sliding in among the Whiteshields, he found them evenly dispersed around the second Heavy Bolter Team. Five were on the left flank of the gun while the other five were on the right flank. All were dug in and kept the necessary wargear in arm’s reach. Clivvy was the only one not behind a rock. She was darting between each of the Whiteshields and whispering directions in their ears. Marsh decided not to assist her and allowed the squad leader to conduct her own affairs. He settled next to Yeardley who was crouching on one knee behind a moderately sized rock. When he looked at Marsh, his child-like smile split his face. 

The platoon sergeant reached over and grasped the young man’s shoulder. “Let’s make Kasr Polaris proud this night.”

“For Kasr Polaris.”

Marsh zeroed his own sights and then hunkered down. He did not like having to rely on another individual to keep lookout in these scenarios, but he trusted Bullard and Hitch. Watching for the enemy passed the time and made the waiting period far less tedious. Keeping oneself preoccupied kept the nerves suppressed. Despite his own experience, Marsh Silas was not immune to the natural fears of war. Such a reaction was physical and only the most devout and brave of the Astra Militarum could withstand it. How he wished he were a noble Astartes at times like these! The finest warriors of the Emperor and the Imperium felt no fear. What liberation it was to not be afraid. Although he was acquainted with such a freedom, it was rare and surfaced in the strangest circumstances. 

_Breathe, my dear Silvanus, breathe._ Barlocke’s voice was so soothing it felt like a warm hand passing across his forehead. The platoon sergeant shut his eyes and allowed the voice to flow through his mind, filling like water in a basin. _You have fought before and bravely too. To your left and your right are comrades, stalwart and strong._ Marsh looked to his right side and smiled sadly. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a shape kneel beside him. A long, flowing trench coat hung from their shoulders, a wide-brimmed hat was low on their brow, and an eager smile tugged at their lips. It lingered only for a moment, dissipating like warm breath on a cool morning. The wind seemed to carry the image away and Marsh felt a great longing.

“How I wish you were with us, old friend.”

“Did you say something, Staff Sergeant?”

“Just uttering a prayer, in a certain fashion I suppose,” Marsh whispered back to Yeardley with a chuckle. “Control your breathing, son, and don’t fire too fast. Aim slow, aim true.”

Marsh changed position so he was laying down with his shoulders and head against the rock. He held his M36 across his chest and steadily drummed his fingers against the side. Looking up, he managed to see a break in the clouds. Through it, white stars glimmered peaceably in the purple-black veil. A moment later, the wind blew and another cloud covered the break. It was well and good; ambushes tended to be more successful when there was no moon and no stars. 

He waited as patiently as possible, forcing himself to stop tapping on the side of his weapon. This was no time for nervous tics. Each passing minute felt like a century. Time seemed to slow down, as if Cadia’s own rotation was coming to a halt. Such a feeling was curiously alluring just as it was frustrating. No matter how many times Marsh waited to enter battle, he could not shake this state. 

When Bullard’s voice broke through his micro-bead, he jumped. 

“I have eyes on the enemy. Approaching at the quick-step, over.”  
“All First Platoon stations,” Hyram’s voice followed, “hold fire until I fire the first shot. Then, show them the Emperor’s fury.”

Marsh Silas changed position, slowly turning over onto his stomach. Then, he rose to a crouch and peeked over the edge of the rock. Below, at the base of the ridge’s slop, the heretics streamed into the draw. They move quickly although in an undisciplined, comfortable fashion. Nobody was expecting an ambush all the way here in the ground they considered their own. Skirmishers were not deployed on the flanks, there was no element of leadership at the head of the column, and no rearguard. With his eyes having adjusted to the darkness, Marsh could make out further details. Although the core shapes of the individual heretics remained naught but shadows, he could make out the worn edges of the ragged clothes they wore. Some wore boots ripped from the feet of dead Guardsmen, a sight which disgusted and infuriated Marsh Silas. Others were barefoot or bore makeshift shoes; some had tied strips of rubber to their feet. 

None seemed to notice the cold or the snowflakes sprinkling from the sky. Each moved on in an aggressive, excitable way. Marsh looked both ways, up and down the line. He could see the shape of Guardsmen’s shoulders rising as they brought their weapons to bear on the enemy. At the center, one form stood directly up. Hyram took the flag from Babcock, drove it into a crevice between two stones, and fired a single shot from his M36. The lasbolt struck a heretic at the edge of the column, blowing his arm off from the shoulder. “For the Emperor!” Hyram bellowed. 

“Bloody Platoon!” the Guardsmen cheered.

Multicolored lasbots and tracer rounds lit up the night. Behind them, the mortar went off and a flare exploded in the sky. Three lights began to flutter down to Cadian soil. Below, the enemy were blinded. Heretics fanned out in every direction, running straight into the maw of the Walmsley brothers’ Heavy Bolter. Streams of bolt shells swept back and forth across the draw. Heretics lost their legs and toppled over. Knee caps were blown out and feet were severed. Red, blue, and golden lasbots from the men on the ridge blew heads open, burst stomachs, and seared flesh. Below, heretics screamed in a rabid frenzy. Some threw themselves behind cover and began returning fire with their feeble autoguns. Others charged up the slope, a tactic the Cadians practiced in response to an ambush: break it. But the slope was too treacherous to climb quickly. Grenadiers fired straight down into the draw, blowing heretics to pieces and splintering their squads. Guardsmen lobbed grenades into the draw while others rolled them down the slope. Mortar shells dropped with extreme accuracy; rounds whistled, struck, and sent up columns of earth, snow, and body parts. Even after the flares went out, the mortar rounds kept falling precisely. 

Guardsmen cheered and raised prayers to the Emperor. Whooping, roaring, shaking their fists, loading fresh charge packs, and hurling insults at the enemy, they poured on the fire. In a matter of moments, half the enemy column was wiped out. Bodies fell over and on top of one another. Some were struck by so many lasbolts they fell apart. But in the light of the lasbolts and the tracers, one could see their face. In acts of defiance, the heretics removed the sack hoods and masks they wore. Each was disformed, disheveled, inhuman in every regard. Violet eyes turned blood red, fangs jutted from their mouths, spikes were lodged in their brows, pustules and sores covered their cheeks. When they opened their mouths, they screamed and spewed a vile concoction of blood, mucus, pus, and bile. Such fluids splattered the ground hot, melting the snow and causing steam to rise. Some of what they vomited caused the scraggly bushes throughout the draw to wither and die. Even the stones seemed scorched by it, as if touched by flame. 

None showed fear, just rage and hate towards the ambushers. Their red eyes seemed to glow brighter, like coals having completely ignited. Some threw down their weapons and just screamed. Their cries were piercing, rising above the battle din and searing Marsh’s eardrums. But he kept firing no matter how terrifying their furious eyes and leaking faces were. 

Unable to break the ambush or advance, the surviving heretics, numbering around thirty or so, began to retreat. “Clivvy! Now’s your time!” Hyram shouted over the micro-bead.

“Whiteshields, with me!” Clivvy shouted. Marsh got to his feet but saw no one else was. Everyone remained behind their rocks, as if paralyzed. Some were still shooting but it was a desperate, frenzied kind of firing. When he saw their eyes in the muzzle flash of their muzzle flashes, he saw they wide and fearful. Clivvy, who ran ahead a few meters, doubled back and began racing among them. “What are you doing!? Get on your feet!”

“Move it, Whiteshields!” Marsh added, tugging Yeardley up. No sooner had the lad bounced onto his feet did he dive back behind his rock and cover his head. Webley was the only one to get up and she began to try and usher the other eight on. 

“Get moving, Whiteshields!” she ordered. “Go, go, goooo!”

“Get them moving!” Hyram shouted over the micro-bead. “You need to move them now! Get in position, they’re running, they’re going to get away, you need to go!” The Lieutenant’s blood was up, Marsh could hear it in his voice. It was more ferocious than ever before. So Marsh and Clivvy went among them, trying to pull them to their feet. He even began to kick them in their rear ends or stamped on their rucksacks. 

When Marsh whirled around to see Clivvy throw her hat to the ground, turn around, and charge down the slope towards the enemy by herself. Upon seeing this, Webley raced after her. Marsh immediately pointed at them. 

“Following your squad leader!”

Everyone looked to see the pair barreling down the slope. All the Whiteshields jumped to their feet and ran after them. They unleashed a shrill war cry. Marsh joined them, charging the enemy with his bayonet poised. Shooting as they ran, they cut down a number of the escaping heretics before engaging them hand to hand. Marsh bayoneted one in the belly, withdrew the blade, and then brought it across the heretic’s throat. One who tried to rush him with a knife received a crack across the jaw with the buttstock of his M36. Before he could bring the bayonet down on him, someone ran into him and brought him to the ground. Losing his grip, Marsh tussled with the assailant, rolling over one another several times. He ended up on his back and locked his hands around the heretic’s wrist. A rusty dagger was pointed directly at his throat. Above him, the heretic growled menacingly like a wild animal. 

The blade drew closer. Marsh pushed back with all his might. He struggled to kick and flail his legs to try and throw the attacker off him. But the heretic adjusted, placing more of his weight on the platoon sergeant’s legs. Snickering, the heretic smiled. 

“Where is your Emperor now?” he screeched. 

“I’m going to gouge out your eyes you fucking traitor,” Marsh snarled back. A movement to his left caught his eye. Webley swung her leg back and kicked with all her might. The blow landed right in the heretic’s ribs and knocked him off. Roaring, the Whiteshield leaped over Marsh and drove her bayonet into his mouth. When she withdrew the blade, she began beating him mercilessly over the head with the buttstock. 

Before Marsh could draw his own trench knife someone grabbed him from behind. He raised his arm to protect his throat, expecting a knife. Instead, someone restrained him and kept him on his knees. Three heretics sprang from cover with knives and raced towards him. Marsh fought as hard as he could, cracking the back of his skull against the heretic’s forehead but their grip was like a vise. When the enemy was almost upon him, the Whiteshields roared and charged. Clivvy, Graeme, Yeardley, Rowley, and Tattersall threw themselves on the three assailants. Beating them down with fists and M36 blows, they transitioned to their blades and ripped them apart. A few heretics, having finally broken, ran past them out of the draw. 

Leander, Merton, Rayden, and Soames formed a line, raised their lasguns, and fired a crimson fusilade that lit up the night. The surviving heretics were quickly dispatched, falling into the snow. Behind them, the firing stopped. All was suddenly quiet save for the ragged panting of the Guardsmen. A head count was conducted; squad leaders policed their troopers and happily reported there were no casualties. The only wounds Guardsmen reported were grazes or a bit of shrapnel that sliced a shoulder. Everyone wanted to cheer but Hyram hushed them. 

Half the platoon was put on watch while the other half descended into the draw. Lamp packs and flashlights were activated, illuminating the area. Around their feet were the grisly remains of the heretics. Blood splattered the disturbed snow and the rocks, spilled intestines and severed limbs littered the ground. Warm bodies emitted steam from their pulsing, sucking, leaking wounds. A few moans rose up and were silenced by a bayonet thrust. 

The Whiteshields gathered up near Marsh Silas. Before he could speak, Hyram came marching down the draw with his head cocked and shoulders hunched. Growling as he approached, he came up to the closest Whiteshield, Leander, and kicked him in the chestplate. The Whiteshield fell back so hard he lost his breath.

“Lieutenant!” Marsh protested. 

“Shut up!” Hyram barked, pointing in his face. He turned and faced the Whiteshields. “You _fucking_ disgrace! What’s wrong with you? First you are so eager for action you disobey my orders and then when I give you one to fight you cower! You shame this platoon!”

The members of Bloody Platoon amassed behind him watched anxiously. Rage did not come often to Lieutenant Hyram but when it did it was very jarring and unsettling. Nobody withdrew but they seemed to become smaller. Even though they were not the recipients of Hyram’s anger, they bore the appearance of scolded children. The Whiteshields fared even worse. Everyone was red in the face and close to tears. Each one lowered their head, ashamed. 

Yeardley cleared his throat, stepped forward, and raised his head.

“I’m sorry, sir, I just got such a fright and—”

Hyram slapped Yeardley across the face so hard the young man staggered back. Wide-eyed and holding his cheek, the Whiteshield looked back. A moment later, tears fell from his eyes. Hyram stormed forward and grabbed him by the collar of his Flak Armour. 

“We’re all scared out here, boy! But did you see these men hesitate!?” He tore Yeardley forward and made him look at the veterans. All looked down at him with frank, indifferent expressions. The Lieutenant shoved him back so hard he fell on his backside. Rowley knelt beside him and put her arm around him. “You plebians are more a threat to this platoon than the enemy! If you can’t manage to keep up, I swear to the Emperor I will send you back to whichever Kasr you’ve come from and allow the Commissars to bestow whatever punishment they see fit upon you!”

Rowley helped Yeardley stand up and then she turned to face Hyram.

“Sir, please—” 

Hyram slapped her as well. Rowley did not fall but she held her cheek and fought back tears. Towering over her, Hyram got right in her face, his violet eyes ablaze. 

“Do your job!” Hyram hollered. He went to every single one of the Whiteshields except for Webley and Clivvy. Grabbing them by the collar or the side of their neck, he got in each of their faces and repeated the order. “Do your job! Do your job! Do your job!”

When he finished, he took a step back, closed his eyes, and inhaled sharply. Turning, he faced Clivvy and Webley. Both of them appeared apprehensive but waited for whatever words and blows he reserved for them. But to the shock of everyone gathered, Hyram suddenly smiled. “Sergeant Clivvy, Trooper Webley, you were both personally brave and proceeded to follow orders at great risk. You shall both be awarded the Eagle Ordinary and Webley, you are hereby promoted to corporal.”

Both of them beamed and saluted.

“Thank you, sir!” they chimed in unison. Hyram’s smile faded. 

“But you have to control your Whiteshields. That does not just mean you must restrain, it also means you must force them sometimes. Do not let that kind of hesitation happen again among your squad or I shall have the Junior Commissar see to their remedial training.”

Hyram turned around and faced the men. “Search the bodies for intelligence. Touch not their flesh, only their clothing. Cover your faces, utter cleansing prayers, and protect your hands. We move out in ten minutes.”

The platoon leader pushed through the crowd and began walking back up the draw. Bloody Platoon’s veterans watched him go, then looked back at the Whiteshields. Marsh followed their gaze. Gathered together, the Whiteshields did not move and bowed their heads. Graeme, Rowley, and Yeardley were outright crying. Others wiped their faces or tried to hide their shameful expression behind their tactical hoods. Nobody looked each other in the eye. Rowley buried her face in her hands while Yeardley kept his hands on her shoulders. Clivvy and Webley stepped in front of them.

“Dry your eyes and raise your heads,” Clivvy said. “We have a duty to perform. What happened tonight will not happen again, I firmly believe that. Now come, Whiteshields, with me.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” they all said, their voices thick or choked. 

Each one saluted, wiped their faces, and began searching the dead. Marsh stared, blinked, and then grimaced. Spinning around, he marched through the platoon as they picked at the corpses’ clothing. At the end of the draw, he found Hyram overseeing Third Squad and the Walmsley brothers as they vacated their position. Marsh waited until the other Guardsmen passed by him to approach the platoon leader. He grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. 

_Wait, think of what you do, Silvanus! You are angry and it is never good to speak to a friend in such a state. Don’t say anything you may regret!_

Marsh heard Barlocke’s frantic voice but it did not register with him like it did before. 

“Is that how you dealt with your boy when he misbehaved?”

“My son does not misbehave,” Hyram said, pushing Marsh’s hand away.

“They was scared, that’s all, it happens to every Whiteshield once in a while!” Marsh protested. “It ain’t worth hitting a girl in the face! By the Emperor, she’s just a lass.”

Hyram stepped closer and spoke in a hushed but urgent tone.

“That is _not_ a girl, that is _not_ a lass. That is a soldier, Silas. Soldiers follow orders. Soldiers overcome their fear. They are children no longer, they are warriors. If they cannot perform I do not want them in this platoon.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, shook his head, and took a few stressed breaths. Finally, he prodded Marsh’s chestplate with his finger. “It has been and still is your duty to train them. They will not learn, contribute, or survive if you continue to treat them like children. Stop acting like Barlocke and ensure they fulfill their fucking duties.”

“Barlocke? I ain’t tryin’ ta be like Barlocke!”  
“I know you were friends. I often sat with the Inquisitor and spoke to him as well. You were not the only one he sought to bestow his ideology. You were not the only one who grieved. His ideas, while admirable and attractive to mine-own ears, have no place in a Cadian platoon. Now, rejoin the men and get to work.”

Hyram turned around and began tramping back up the ridge. Marsh balled his hands into fists, growled, and turned around. But he didn’t immediately engage in the search. Squeezing his eyes shut, he controlled his breathing so he didn’t lose his temper. _That went better than expected. Hyram is upset, but don’t hold it against him. You are friends after all and you’ve both got weight on your shoulders. You said it yourself, he’s a worrier. He was just—_ ”

“Leave me alone, Barlocke,” Marsh hissed. 

He didn’t need nor want his friend’s help in dealing with this. Marsh Silas butted heads with his platoon leader before; Good Ol’ Overton was his best friend but even they argued sometimes. In such affairs, he learned they were not arguing as friends but as a superior to a subordinate. The platoon leader gave the platoon sergeant orders, which the latter believed he was carrying out those orders correctly, but the former disagreed. The Lieutenant and the Staff Sergeant agreed on a great deal but it seemed like they diverged when it came to training the Whiteshields. Considering it was he who trained Hyram, he was surprised by this. Perhaps he still considered them newcomers while Marsh saw them as regular hands in the platoon. 

Calming down, he knew the Whiteshields failed in the effort that night. While they may have finally risen and attacked, their hesitation was inexcusable. He knew that and he would speak to them about it when the time was right. Hyram gave them too much of a whipping for him to feel comfortable dishing out another one. Of course, he would be lighter than his counterpart. Such was the balance of leadership; when one was tough, the other needed to be softer. A platoon needed to know their two commanders cared about them but still expected them to do their duty. 

Resolving not to take it personally, Marsh walked down the draw, retrieved his weapon, and aided the search. He rifled through the coat and trouser pockets of numerous bodies. Sometimes all that was left were some scraps of clothing sitting in a pool of blood. As he worked, he offered up muffled prayers to keep his soul and flesh clean and pure. Everyone was murmuring for such protection, as if the words created a shield around them. With so many Guardsmen speaking the same words, the individual voices joined into a quiet, droning song. 

Marsh was careful as he sifted through pockets and backpacks. He did not want to unwittingly touch some artifact or token of Chaos. All he managed to find were moldy chunks of bread, ancient Militarum dry rations, spoiled meat, and unfiltered water. Such water was carried not in canteens but in clear bags secured with rope or leather skins. Lifting one of the bags, Marsh turned his flashlight on it. Floating in the bags he could see what looked like sand collecting at the bottom. Upon closer inspection, the substances were not as fine as sand. Some glinted in the light, others didn’t. What began to collect in the corners of the bag appeared as slick, gray sediment. 

“Honeycutt?” 

A moment later, the senior medic appeared and crouched beside him. “What do ya make o’ this?”

Honeycutt’s duties did not just extend to the immediate and long-term care of the fighting Guardsman. His responsibilities included ensuring they consumed enough food to maintain their strength, providing nutrition enhancers when he could when their rations lacked variety, and inspecting what foodstuffs and drink they carried for contamination. Such contamination didn’t always come in the form of poisons or factorum runoff, but also from the planet itself. 

Honeycutt took Marsh’s lamp back and examined the bag from multiple sides. Then, he held up two fingers.

“There’s two places where this water could be collected from. One, a collection of rainwater or some small surface pond in a rocky area. Second, from underground, and I’m partial to the second. See that gray goop there? That’s clay. If you dig a deep enough fighting hole in land such as this, you’re bound to hit some o’ this. Lots of natural caves and old tunnel networks from deactivated bases in these lands.”

“If their base is underground, it explains why aerial and ground patrols have been unable to find them,” Marsh Silas remarked. 

“Who is to say there is only one base?” Junior Commissar Carstensen asked, having joined the pair. She stooped over them, her hands on her knees. “We’ll need more evidence before we can definitely declare the enemy is underground, but it is very likely.”

Honeycutt walked off, called to attend to a bleeding graze wound. Marsh took his knife and pierced the bag, and let it drain onto the ground. It was unsafe for the men to drink it and he didn’t want the heretics who would invariably arrive to use it either. He sheathed the knife and turned for the next body. Carstensen put a hand on his chestplate. “Are you well?”

“Nearly took a couple o’ heretic daggers, but that’s just another day, ain’t it, ma’am?”

“I overheard your discussion with Lieutenant Hyram.”

Marsh pursed his lips and averted his eyes from Carstensen. The Junior Commissar glanced around to make sure no one was especially close. Stepping closer, she turned halfway so it did not look as if they were leaning too close to one another. “Try to keep those kinds of disagreements behind closed doors, although it’ll be hard to find one out here, so it may be better in future to keep your voices down.” 

A quiet attempt at humor was all Marsh Silas needed, much to his surprise. His lips tugged into a little smile and he eventually emitted a polite chuckle. Carstensen’s own grin widened, apparently satisfied she was successful in her endeavor. Stepping closer, she nodded her head in his direction. “You must understand, it’s not about them or even you. It’s about him. He looks at those Whiteshields and he seems himself. It was not too long ago he was so scared he couldn’t move either. He’s trying to push you so you’ll push them, like you did for him.”

Her fingers touched his own. “Do what you can for them.”

“Yes, Junior Commissar.”

“I found something!”

Everyone turned and gathered around Drummer Boy. The senior Voxman was kneeling next to a corpse at the head of the column and was holding up a sheet of parchment. Multiple lamp backs illuminated it. It was a map. Hyram arrived, took it from Drummer Boy, and examined it under Marsh’s light. Portrayed on the parchment was the entire hinterland, Kasr Sonnen, the entire road network, and Army’s Meadow. Arrows indicated different movements across the ground, most of which were directed at the various outposts up and down the main road. Scribbles next to each arrow provided routes, dates, and from what they could understand, tactical designations for various war parties. 

Of course, the true objective—the heretics’ base or bases of operation—were not portrayed on the map. But all the arrows swept from the north towards the south and east. It was an indication they needed to push further north. Hyram’s violet eyes sparkled and a grin split his face, excited to track down the elusive enemy. 

“So whatcha thinkin’ sir, head north or do ya want to hit these other raiding parties?” Marsh asked, pointing at some of the arrows. “We intercepted this one and if we move east, we can hit the next one. They ain’t due for another hour if I’m readin’ this right.”

“You can read, Staff Sergeant?” somebody asked. It sounded like Jupp. 

“Somebody smack whoever said that,” Marsh said without looking up from the map. There was a distinctive _slap_ sound behind him.

“Ow!”

“Thank you,” Marsh said over his shoulder. Hyram scrutinized the map for another moment before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

“I can’t in good conscience allow these enemy raids to commence uncontested. Cadian lives are at risk and we have the means to save them. We pursue these parties and eliminate as many as we can. If they are carrying similar intelligence we may be able to piece together the larger picture and, with the Emperor’s blessing, destroy their main base.” He checked his watch. “That’s it then. Bloody Platoon, prepare to fall out! Yoxall, plant a few surprises for the heretics if they decide to come looking for their comrades.”

“Yessir!”

“Marsh Silas, Babcock, with me.”

Hyram led the pair towards the end of the draw. “Babcock, cut that heretic’s head off. Marsh, find a stout branch.” Marsh was able to hack a low-hanging branch off from one of the few trees in the draw and brought it back. When he returned, Babcock was standing with a hatchet in one hand and the hair of a severed head in the other. Upon the Lieutenant’s instructions, the platoon sergeant planted the branch vertically in the dirt and Babcock drove it in with the flat side of the hatchet blade. With his trench knife, Marsh sharpened the end of the branch and Babcock planted the head on it. 

Smiling, Hyram produced a piece of parchment and a long, honed piece of wood he worked on with his own knife. Using the back of the hatch, they hammered the parchment into the head's face. On the paper were the words, ‘Bloody Platoon was here! All heretics will die!’ The trio stepped back and regarded the totem proudly. “When they find the bodies, they will realize they are being hunted. It will be good to let them know who is coming for them.”

Marsh Silas heartily agreed as he joined the rest of Bloody Platoon, melting away into the night. 


	12. Chapter 12

Marsh Silas and Arnold Yoxall slowly peeked over the log they were hiding behind. Both men were lying on their stomachs overlooking a hilly trail. On the downward slope, a long line of disheveled, filthy, ragged heretics were marching in single-file. The trail was packed so tightly with thick scrub vegetation, large stones, and trees that it was impossible to walk shoulder to shoulder. In the pale light of the moon, the two Guardsmen could make out their wargear; autoguns constructed from scrap, stolen leather boots, rusted daggers and swords, and pieces of metal tied to their chests in a feeble attempt at wearing body armour. No two were dressed alike save for the sack hoods many of the region’s cultists, heretics, and traitors wore. As they marched they remained silent which gave the wretched column a strange solemnity. 

Both Marsh and Yoxall slid back behind cover. All around them, the Guardsmen remained crouched or prone among bushes, rocks, and behind trees. Bloody Platoon was dispersed twenty meters back from the trail, having dug in hours earlier in preparation. Although the ground was difficult to traverse they had the time and the skill to entrench in it. Invisible to the enemy, their uniforms and armour smeared with mud and snow, they kept their M36 lasguns raised. Forefingers rested anxiously outside their trigger guards. 

The two friends looked at one another and the platoon sergeant nodded. Yoxall grinned, wrapped the final strand of detonation cord around the detonator, and then put his hands on the plunger. Everyone got as low as possible and pulled their helmets over their faces.

“Contact!” he hissed and shoved the plunger down. Over a dozen explosions sent columns of earth skywards. Shrapnel hammered rocks, tore up bushes, and sliced away tree bark. Heretics screamed as their flesh was ripped up and their limbs amputated. Bodies tumbled in all directions or disappeared in the blast zones. 

“Bloody Platoon!” the Guardsmen screamed as they raised themselves. Lasbolts, plasma bolts, and bolt shells tore through the night. Staggering survivors stunned by the explosives were gunned down. Figures, nothing but shadows in the dim light and dust cloud, began to fall every which way. Some crumpled over, others were thrown off their feet by the velocity of Heavy Bolter round, and others twitched and collapsed. 

Marsh Silas extricated himself from his position and began moving up and down the line. Autogun slugs sliced and snapped through air, grazing trees and ricocheting off rocks. 

“Keep it up, Bloody Platoon!” he shouted. “Maintain your base o’ fire! Aim low! Mark ya targets before ya fire!”

Hyram came walking the other way, his M36 shoulder and his sword in hand. He pointed it at the enemy as he walked along. In the muzzle flashes and the glow of colorful lasbolts, his violet eyes were blazing and he looked every inch a Cadian officer.

“Keep up the fire, you men!” he hollered. “I want fire superiority! Give it everything you’ve got! Take no prisoners!” He crouched beside individual Guardsmen and pointed out targets for them. Following the Lieutenant’s hand, Jupp gunned down a retreating heretic, blasted open the back of a second, and blew the leg off a third. With Caferro, he spotted clusters of enemies pushing into the opposite border of the trail in an attempt to find cover. Once he discovered a holdout, he directed the grenadier to fire. One or two shells scattered the heretics and reduced their position to dust. Hopping to the next Guardsman and the next, Hyram ensured everyone knew where to fire.

Meanwhile, Marsh found Babcock and Drummer Boy occupying a position behind a few larger stones. He slid in between them and resumed firing. Babcock precisely picked off targets with a laspistol while Drummer Boy flipped his M36 to semi-automatic for more accurate fire. Based at the extreme left of the line, they cut down any of the heretics who attempted to make a breakout. Some attempted to rush their position but the volume of fire was too much. All dropped dead before they managed to get off the trail. 

Enemy fire began to wither. Bloody Platoon kept firing but Marsh Silas lowered his weapon. He listened intently for gunfire but couldn’t pick any out among the laser and plasma fire. 

“Cease firing!” he shouted. “Cease firiiiing!” The volume of fire dropped to a few errant, angry shots before falling completely silent. Marsh Silas stepped from cover and ventured onto the trail. Staying at a half-crouch, he examined the carnage. Bodies and body parts, craters Yoxall’s explosives, and blood; another victorious ambush. It was their twelfth one in as many days since they discovered the map. Each time they eliminated another of the raiding parties, they were able to pick up more intelligence. Nothing led to their main base of operations but they kept discovering more opportunities to strike at the enemy’s forces.

Since that night, they plotted the routes on their own map, chose favorable ground, waited, and struck. Every raiding party they encountered was entirely wiped out. Each success raised morale higher than ever before. Whenever they bedded down to rest, Marsh Silas could see everyone beaming with pride. So excited they were from repeated success they could hardly sleep! Some even begged Lieutenant Hyram to continue operations during daylight hours. Impressed as he was by their enthusiasm, the platoon leader disallowed it. The cover of night was one of the greatest keys to their repeated victories.

However, Lieutenant Hyram was planning something different for tonight. Marsh Silas found him conferring with Carstensen over his Data-slate. Both were squatting on the right side of the trail. Already, someone delivered the movement orders and maps the heretics were carrying. As bayonet men finished off the wounded, the three commanders crouched together over the data-slate. 

“This is the first enemy contact I plan for this eve,” Hyram said, tapping the screen. “In the general vicinity, there were four other large enemy patrols. Three are east of us and another is to the west. I fear they may be trying to stage an assault on  _ this  _ checkpoint on the northern supply route.” Dramatically, he planted his finger at the point on the map. It was an isolated installation fifteen kilometers away. Much of the route was still industrializing as the operational tempo in the region was increasing. As such, these points on the road were meant to become larger fortifications but until that time, they possessed only small garrisons, few heavy weapons, and several reinforced structures. 

Hyram lifted his finger and began running his hand along his chin. “The small forces in these checkpoints will be overrun if we don’t destroy these heretics.”

“So, we ain’t just hittin’ the one patrol this night?” Marsh clarified. “How are we to hit all o’em? We can’t cover that much ground that fast.”

“We don’t have to,” Hyram said with a grin. “We’ll draw them to us. First, we must eliminate the patrol to the west. We’ll fight a defensive action, thin them out, then withdraw here.” He highlighted another location on the Data-slate map. “A flat hilltop half kilometer to the north. We’ll make our stand there and absorb the enemy attacks like we did during the rescue mission.”

Marsh grimaced at the memory. He remembered the run and gun action of the day, protecting the young ones as the heretics gave chase. At the top of the hill, they massed their firepower and were able to hold them off until reinforcements arrived. A glorious but bittersweet victory; although the heretics were defeated, the children were already corrupted. 

Hyram must have noticed the platoon sergeant’s grave expression. He reached over, clutched the collar of his Flak Armour, and jostled him gently. When Marsh looked up, the Lieutenant held him by the side of his head for a moment, carefully took a handful of his thick blonde hair, and shook him again. He let go and smiled; it was enough to make Marsh grin. 

“The noise of battle alone may not attract them,” Carstensen said, utterly focused. Straightening up, she looked around. “We can light these trees afire; they’ll be noticeable for many kilometers.”

“Agreed. Corporal Tatum! Set ablaze these trees!”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Hyram began packing up his Data-slate. As he did, Marsh tapped him on his shoulder. 

“Say, when did ya find that hill?”

“I reconnoitered it myself while you two were asleep yesterday. Come along! We’ve got heretics that need killing!” he said in a delighted tone. As Tatum turned his Flamer on the trees and engulfed them in fire, Marsh and Carstensen exchanged a wary, worried glance. But they jumped to their feet, rallied their platoon, and followed Hyram up the slope. Rallying Bloody Platoon as they walked, the Shock Troopers fell in behind their commanders. Everyone marched with a particular determined zeal; their hands were balled into hands, they pumped their legs very hard, and those who hadn’t reloaded their weapons. Nobody was fatigued as they traversed the thin, upward trail. 

The hill that punctuated the trail morphed with a ridge that ran from south to north. Although it possessed a gentle slope on either end, the ridge was congested with even more stones and thicketts than the trail. At the top, Marsh raised his magnoculars, still tied around his neck. He looked out at the landscape, nothing more than a series of dark shapes and turns in the dim moonlight. Hyram took the magnoculars from his grasp, surveyed the ground for a moment, and then pointed due north as he handed them back. “See? The elevation is higher than this hill and will give us a commanding three-hundred sixty degree view of the area. It’s removed enough from all other rises so the enemy will not be able to engage us at long range.”

Marsh grinned and nodded, the environment taking greater shape as Hyram described it. In his mind, Barlocke chuckled handsomely. The warmth spread down Marsh’s neck and seemed to fill his chest.  _ Lieutenant Hyram continues to impress me. If you told me all those months ago this timid man was to become a ruthless tactician, I may not have believed you _ . I’m inclined to agree with you old friend, Marsh thought to himself.  _ You say he is the fatherly one, but it is you who so often looks at him with a father’s pride _ . The platoon sergeant rolled his eyes and lowered his magnoculars. 

Hyram rallied the squad leaders. “We’ll form a line to face the threat coming from the west. All Heavy Weapons Squads will deploy on the left across the southern ridge with the Special Weapons Squad. Queshire, get your gunmen into a reserve position to watch the east in case the enemy comes upon us. Holmwood, First Squad, will be on the right flank. If you will, form your squad into a hook to deflect any flanking maneuvers. Mottershead, we’ll be in the center. Carstensen, I want you with the Heavies. Marsh, Clivvy, you and the Whiteshields will be in the center also. Order of withdrawal will be from south to north, with Holmwood’s squad the last to vacate the position. Go.”

Everyone dispersed with a cry of, ‘yes, sir!’ and departed for their positions. Marsh and Clivvy spread the Whiteshields on the left side of the center. The jammed up nature of the ground made it very easy to dig in. All the larger rocks were about waist-high and the grass grew thickly between them. Many of the pines were tall and thick which allowed a Guardsman to stand behind the trunk without being seen. Everyone crawled and crouched into place. Charge packs were checked and bayonets secured. 

Marsh crouched beside Graeme, tapping the young man on the back of his head. He was jittery but grinned happily before turning back to face the west. The platoon sergeant looked over his shoulder. Dozens of trees were wreathed in flames. Pine needles snapped and the moisture trapped in the bark popped. An orange haze emanated from the flames; it was so bright he could make out Queshire and Third Squad’s silhouettes against the light. Just as began to look forward again, he heard a terrific  _ snap!  _ Every single member of Bloody Platoon looked back. One of the trees broke at the base and collapsed onto the trail in a shower of sparks. Clouds of sparks shot out and fluttered upwards. Vegetation caught fire with a ferocious  _ whoosh _ , like a beast roaring. 

“Here they coooome!”

He looked down the slope of the hill to the west. A horde of heretics  were creeping silently up the hill. Upon being spotted, they issued a frenzied war cry and began charging. Lasbolts and Heavy Bolter shells ripped through the night. Heretics tumbled back down the hill or fell flat against it. Firing from the hip and lobbing grenades, the ragged attackers continue to charge. When they were halfway up the slope, Marsh ducked down to load a fresh charge pack in his M36. As he came up, a heretic rushed at him with a machete raised. Before he could bring his lasgun to bear, a blue bolt struck the heretic and threw him out of sight. 

Yeardley raced into the position, stood up, changed the intensity on his weapon, and fired red lasbolts down at the enemy. His teeth were clenched and his eyes were angry. 

“Get down, boy!”

“I’m not afraid!”

“But ya are stupid, down!” Marsh grabbed him by his rucksack and yanked him to the ground. There was no time to scold him. He raised his weapon and continued shooting. When his charge pack was drained, he let his weapon hang by the sleeve and pulled a grenade from his chest. Plucking the pine off, he lobbed it down the slope. The explosion threw up black earth and snow. Several heretics fell. More grenades went off and cut down entire squads of attackers. Yet they came on and on. Out of grenades, Marsh drew his Ripper Pistol and emptied a magazine into a few who assaulted his position. Still unable to reload, he dropped the pistol and drew the shotgun. 

He waited for the right moment to spring up. Five heretics came bounding up towards their position. When they closed in at ten meters, Marsh bounced up and squeezed off all eight rounds in the cylinder. The five enemies dropped out of sight. Finally, he was able to reload. Yeardley covered him as he cycled all his weapons. As he did, Hyram came running back. 

“Withdraw in good order!” he shouted. Moments later, Carstensen and the Heavy Weapons Squads came by. When they were gone, Hyram ran to the Special Weapons Squads and began tapping them on the shoulder. Each one turned and began to withdraw. Storming by, Hyram pointed at Marsh Silas. “Now’s your time, move it!”

Marsh opened his mouth to yell his orders but Clivvy ran in front of him. 

“Whiteshields, with me! Double quick!”

“Lively now, lively!” Webley ordered, waving her arm. Seeing Marsh sitting behind the rock, she extended her hand. The platoon sergeant took it and she helped him to his feet. Together, they ran down the line. As they passed First Squad and the Platoon Command Squad, Hyram ordered them go. 

Marsh weaved his way through the growth and rocks. The northern half of the ridge petered downwards. Ahead of him, Bloody Platoon broke from the ride and started crossing open ground. Tracer rounds flew over their heads, leaving trails of red and green in the darkness. Despite their wargear loads, everyone pounded on as fast as they could. Marsh’s rucksack and extra weapons were beginning to weigh a lot heavier on his back but he still pressed on. His hot breath came out like a cloud of steam in front of him. Sweat ran down his face and the cold air stung his bearded cheeks. 

Behind him, he listened to the sounds of gunfire intensify behind him. Glancing back, he saw yellow muzzle flashes all over their original position. Behind them, the rearguard of the platoon conducted a fighting retreat. Sprinting for a few meters, they would then stop, suppress the enemy position, and then continue falling back. Marsh didn’t know if everyone made it off the ridge or who was still alive. There was no time to communicate via the micro-bead; he was moving so fast and so focused on the hill ahead of him he could hardly pray for their safety.

Finally at the base of the hill, Bloody Platoon began clawing and scampering their way to the top. Carstensen appeared at the crest, her Bolt Pistol held her in her right hand and pointed skyward. With the other hand cloaked in the Power Fist, she waved them up.

“Come on, come on! Move it! Form a firing line here!” She swept her hand to her left. “Form up right here and provide covering fire!”

The Heavy Bolters opened up, their report sounding like rattling chains sweeping over a metal floor. Yellow tracers filled the night sky and flew over the heads of the rearguard. Marsh took cover behind a log and squeezed off a few shots. More members of Bloody Platoon came flooding over the crest and filled the position. The last one to arrive was Hyram who dove over the log and rolled next to Marsh. 

“The enemy is holding ground along that ridge,” he said, peeking above the log and motioning to it with his hand. “We’ve inflicted heavy casualties. We have a few ourselves. Honeycutt! Establish an aid station in the center of the crest. Drummer Boy, I want our CP right next to it!”

“Do you think the other raiding parties took the bait?” Marsh asked.

“Between the fire and all the bloody explosions, they better,” Hyram said. “I don’t wish to be made a fool of this night.”

Marsh raised his magnoculars and gazed at the burning trees. It was as if the entire slope was on fire. Brown-gray smoke rose from the burning vegetation and fallen trees. Trails of flames whisked through the air as pine needle branches turned to ash. The wind fanned it all, spreading the smoke to the east. Little figures outlined by the flames darted back and forth. Occasionally, an enemy round would strike the ground nearby and kick up some pebbles or dirt. 

Hyram continued to gaze menacingly at the enemy position. He took Marsh’s magnoculars and gazed at the landscape. Minutes ticked by. Men reloaded, dug fighting holes, moved logs into position, and checked their wargear. Behind them, a few of the wounded veterans moaned. Just as the platoon sergeant lowered his magnoculars, the Lieutenant jumped to his feet. “Babcock, hand me the standard!”

Taking the flag, Hyram walked to the center of the hill where there was a pile of rocks. He climbed to the top, wedge the standard’s pole into a crevice, and then yanked his flare gun out. Pointing it at the sky and squeezing the trigger, he launched a red flare high into the sky. It popped and sent out three smaller, blazing lights which began to descend on their position. Dropping the flare gun, he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Heretics!” he screamed. “We are Bloody Platoon! Fight us if you dare!”

His voice carried across the snowy hinterland. Everyone gazed at their commander as he stood defiantly with the flag. Suddenly, an angry chorus of voices rose in the distance. In the distance, many figures began to emerge. They came from the southeast, swarming over berms and ridges. More came directly from the position Bloody Platoon originally occupied. The night was so quiet their ragged breathing and stamping feet carried for many hundreds of meters. 

Marsh rose from his position and began walking the line again. Carstensen and Hyram also joined him.

“Here they come, men. Hold fast. We’ve got the high ground. Mark your targets before you fire. Check your autopistol magazines and charge packs.”

“Holmwood, displace to our eastern flank. Albert, Brownlow, go with them. Olhouser, illumination rounds followed by incendiaries. Keep your eyes open men, be brave.”

“The Emperor stands with us this night, men!” Carstensen cheered, raising her gauntleted fist. “Honor him by smiting these wretches! Pray not for protection or forgiveness or strength! Give thanks to the God-Emperor for bestowing you with a full field of fire and an enemy to fight!”

The pounding feet grew louder. Heretics began shooting. Bullets snapped all around. They threw up another ghastly, animalistic war cry as they charged. 

“Raise your voices, Bloody Platoon!” Hyram shouted.

“Bloody Platooooon!” the men all screamed and then began bellowing incoherently. The enemy came within three hundred meters, two hundred meters, and finally one hundred and fifty. “Open fiiiire!”

The entire line lit up with lasbolts, plasma, and tracers. Grenades and mortars detonated, scattering heretics in every direction. Almost immediately, the front ranks of the enemy force dropped. Those behind tripped and toppled over bodies. But like an ocean wave, the enemy kept rolling forward. More intelligent heretics took cover in depressions or behind rocks to provide covering fire for those who advanced. Heavy Stubbers began to rake the front of Bloody Platoon’s position. Lasguns even began to fire at the Imperials.

Bullets tore chunks out of the log Marsh lay behind. He popped up, squeezing off a few rounds before he was forced back down by automatic fire. Behind him, Olhouser and Snyder’s mortar  _ whumped _ ; whistling filled the air before the shell hit among the enemy. Incendiary shells burst into a fiery cloud and sent out flaming pieces of shrapnel. When they struck flesh, they did not stop burning. Heretics struck by the shrapnel, they tore at their own flesh to get it out. Others tried to roll themselves out as their clothes, hair, and flesh were consumed by flames. Left behind was a white, choking haze. It filled and burned the lungs, bringing even the most foul, sturdy heretics to their knees. So hot was this residue it burned the skin and eyes. 

Some of the drier vegetation throughout the ground caught fire and began burning. It spread to patches of grass. Soon, blankets of flames began to appear. The orange glow lit up the surrounding area and exposed the enemy. Some were not dressed in rags like the others; these ones carried Flak Armour and helmets stripped from dead Cadians, carried M36’s, and lobbed grenades. Their faces were just as horrid though; missing cheeks, mangled yellow teeth, burning red eyes, bursting pustules on their brows, and deathly gray skin. Such sights filled Marsh and the others with fear but they fought on.

“We need more firepower on the left flank! Repeat, we need some gunmen on the eastern side!” Holmwood shouted over the micro-bead.

“Stainthorpe, get your men over there and add some weight to the fight! Honeycutt, send any walking wounded back to the line, we need more guns!”

Marsh reloaded and looked down the line to his left as he did. Men crouched and lobbed hand grenades. Others continued to fire their M36 lasguns, flipping the firing mode to automatic and tore heretics apart with the blasts. Targets were called out, spare charge packs tossed between soldiers, and wounded troopers briefly retreated from the line to the aid station, got stitched up, and returned to fight. 

Blue, golden, and red lasbolts illuminated the Shock Troopers. Yellow muzzle flashes emitting from Heavy Bolters were blinding. White-blue plasma bolts hissed across the landscape and struck targets center-mass, cleaving them in half or blowing them to pieces. Yoxall stood with his Meltagun and sprayed a group who managed to get near the crest. All of them were coated in the golden molten beam as it snatched moisture from the air. Amid the hissing, the targets screamed their last as their flesh blackened and bubbled. Further down the line, gouts of fire spewed from Tatum’s Flamer. Droves of heretics were engulfed in the fireball or retreated. 

Suddenly, Barlocke’s fragment gasped.  _ Silvanus, they’re going to try and flank us on the right. We don’t have anyone over there. _ Marsh glanced over and saw he was right. Nobody had stationed themselves there as the enemy was coming from the east, southwest, or due south. Trying to look over the log, he was driven back down by a fusillade of autogun rounds. In the brief glimpse he caught, he could see hundreds of heretics assaulting their position head on. But the movement behind them was erratic and going all over.

“I can’t make it out. Are you sure?” Marsh said as he stayed low, his voice drowned out to the others around him by so many firing weapons.  _ I can sense them. They’re not as blind as they seem; they’re adapting. We need to move to the right and hold our ground or else the position is in jeopardy!  _ Marsh gritted his teeth and stood up. “Whiteshields, with me!”

Without questioning him, the young ones followed him and together they raced to the right. Dispersing among mounds of earth, rocks, stumps, and logs, they took aim. Already, heretics were sweeping around and flowing up the hill. The Whiteshields tossed and rolled grenades down the slope. Each blast drove the enemy back and gave the squad time to thin their ranks with their lasguns. Some tried to outflank them again. Marsh rolled behind a nearby mound and began shooting. 

He heard beating feet behind him. Yeardley and Graeme ran to the extreme right of the position. Both primed grenades at the same time. Graeme tossed his first but an autogun slug hit him in his chestplate. He fell back and knocked Yeardley to the side as he did. Marsh’s eyes widened as the Whiteshield lost the grip on his grenade. 

“Hit the dirt!” Yeardley screamed as dove away. A cloud of dirt and snow erupted where he wanted standing. In the flurry, Marsh heard a shout and saw a form go tumbling down the hill. A moment later, he was over where he last saw him. Graeme was curled on the ground and covering his head. Marsh pushed him onto his back, shouldered his weapon, and with both hands patted him up and down. There were no wounds. 

“The Emperor was watching over you, son!” he screamed. 

“Yeardley fell!”

Under fire, Marsh and Grame crawled to the edge of the hill. Twenty or so meters below them, they could see a form crouched behind a boulder. Red lasbolts arched from his position. Heretics shifted their attack and began charging at the rock. 

“You’re with me, Graeme!”

“With ya, Staff Sergeant!”

Together, they raced down the hill and fired as they did. Bounding so fast, both nearly tumbled over and nearly slid into Yeardley’s position. As Graeme provided covering fire, Marsh checked him over. There was a large red hole in the Whiteshield’s left thigh. 

“It feels like my leg is afire!” He moaned through gritted teeth. Marsh felt the other side of his leg and found a section of his trousers ripped out. His finger felt wet flesh and a larger hole. Yeardley kicked and screamed. Whatever hit him, whether it was shrapnel or a bullet, seemed to have gone through the flesh part of his thigh. But both wounds were bleeding profusely. Marsh dug into his kit bag, produced a tourniquet, wrapped it around the lad’s leg as tightly as he could, and hooked it. Yeardley’s eyes popped and he yelled loudly as the tourniquet was fastening. 

“Graeme, I’ll carry him, you stay right behind me and provide cover fire. Shoot and move, clear?”

“Clear, Staff Sergeant!”

“Go!”

Marsh threw Yeardley over his shoulders which was no easy feat. Strong as he was, a Whiteshield in half-armour and laden with wargear was still very heavy. Grunting and snorting, he marched his way up the hill. Bullets sliced through his trousers, kicked up deposits of pebbles on the slope, and sheared away tufts of grass. Round landing in front of him sprayed his face with dirt. Behind him, Graeme fired his M36 deliberately; there would be the report of an autogun, followed by the Whiteshield’s M36, and then the autogun would cease firing. 

The top seemed far away. Guardsmen began to appear and began firing at the flankers. Fleming appeared and very brazenly jumped on top of a rock, aimed his grenade launcher, and began firing rapidly. Bullets smacked the rocks around him and cracked by his head, but the grenadier did not even flinch. Marsh dared to look right. Heretics were charging parallel to him and Graeme, ignoring the small rescue party and instead attacked the main line. Some got close enough to brandish melee weapons. Just as they vaulted over the Imperial position, bayonets appeared and gutted them. Out of ammunition, Fleming began firing with his autopistol. When a heretic came to attack him, he dropped his pistol, grabbed his launcher by the barrel, and smashed the buttstock over the heretic’s head. 

Dropping it, he slid down the slope and held Marsh carry Yeardley. As heretic drew nearer, Northmore and Capron appeared. They emptied their autopistols, then drew their trench knives Capron wielded his dagger in one hand and one of the utility hatchets they brought in the other. Roaring, he tackled one of the heretics and snak the hatchet into the enemy’s chest. Northmore bashed one in the face with his trench knife’s steel knuckles before cutting another across the face.

Fending off the enemy, the rescue party flopped behind a large, fallen timber. As they got back up to fend themselves, a swarm of heretics came charging at them. A burst of automatic laser fire cut them down. Standing over them was Lieutenant Hyram with his M36 raised. 

“Don’t let up!” he ordered, racing back and forth, stopping only to fire. “Let’em have it! Pour it on! We are not the Emperor’s hammer this night we are His fury!”

“Here they come again!” 

Marsh looked down to see enemy reinforcements approaching. It was either the reserve of the attacking force or another raiding party attracted to the battle. Grenades began to explode nearby. Mortar shells fell and Heavy Stubbers rattled. Even missiles began to slam into their position. He propped Yeardley up against the log and turned him so he could fire. Shoving the lasgun back in his hands, he tapped him on his breastplate and pointed down the hill. 

“I’m gonna fix ya up so you can stay in the fight! You make sure there’s a big pile of dead bodies at the bottom of this here hill!”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” 

“Fire! Everybody, keep firing! Fire, Yeardley, fire!” 

***

Morning revealed a smoking battlefield. Craters and patches of blackened earth dotted the landscape. Brush fires were still burning in many spots. The hill and ridge were entirely burned over the course of the night; not a single tree or bush remained. Blackened roots were all that left. Everywhere, there were corpses twisted in every way. Crumpled heaps, drawn out bodies, decapitated, blown open, burned husks, blasted apart; everywhere there were droves, piles, heaps, and lines of dead heretics. Many lined the holes of shell craters, forming small rings around them. Others died huddled up next to boulders or stumps. Some filled the depressions in the land and were half buried. 

At the top of the hill, Bloody Platoon’s standard flapped in the chilly breeze. Among their slice of Cadian soil were the corpses of many enemy fighters. In the center, under the flag, the aid station was still treating some wounded. Those who were still awake moaned and groaned. Only a few lay in the hastily dug fighting holes and slept. Around the perimeter, the defenders sat and lay every which way. A small number were actually asleep after such a long night of hard fighting. Many took the opportunity to stand up after having spent the night crouched or prone. Many wore cloaks or mantles against the wind. Caught in the gentle gusts, they remained suspending and flowing for a moment before falling back across their wearer’s shoulders. Many withdrew from the line and clustered in fighting holes and depressions. Cooking fires were started and the scent of frying Grox meat, eggs, and bread filled the air, mingling with the scents of burnt flesh and gunpowder. 

Marsh sat on the crest overlooking the south. He sat in with his M36 between his legs, gently scraping the earth with the buttstock. The barrel pointed upwards, the bayonet still slick with red blood. Beside him, his patrol cap sat on a small, flat rock. Next to that was his Flak Armour chestpiece. Cold wind tugged at his thick blonde locks, spilling them in every direction. What remained of his charcoal face paint was mostly faded and replaced by smudges of earth, dust, and soot. Unbuttoning the top of his coat and under layers, his dog tags dangled from his neck. The cool air felt good against his neck.

Mottershead and Second Squad patrolled across the space between the two hills. They prodded bodies with their booted feet or with bayonets. Occasionally they came across a wounded heretic and finished him off. Every single body was searched for intelligence. 

Marsh rested his head against the side of his M36. Clutching the barrel with both hands, his prayer beads were laced between his fingers. The small, golden, Gothic cross which dangled in the center clinked against the olive drab metal of the lasgun. Feeling utterly drained and devoid of energy, his eyelids began to droop.

“Here.”

Marsh found a tin mug right next to his head. Steam rose from freshly brewed recaf. He looked up. Hyram smiled down at him, holding another mug in his other hand. Silently, the platoon sergeant accepted it, set his lasgun down, and took a sip. Hyram doffed his own patrol cap and sat beside him. As he did, he emitted a long sigh. Both of them clutched their tin mugs with both hands and took long sips. 

“Our packs are recharging, but we’re out of grenades. The grenadiers don’t have ten rounds between them and Walmsley Major tells me there are only one thousand rounds left for  _ both  _ Heavy Bolters. I’ll have to request an airdrop, although our little training mission might be canceled if I do that. At least it’ll give the wounded a chance to get back to base and rest.”

“How’s the boy?”

“He wants to stay. They all do, of course.”

“Damned fools,” Marsh chuckled into his mug. Hyram cracked a smile and shook his head.

“They amaze me. Such bravery.” He began tracing the rim of the mug. Marsh gazed at his friend for a time. There was an almost sorrowful look in the Lieutenant’s eyes and his smile seemed very sad. Victory, however great, often brought out many emotions in a leader. A junior Cadian Guardsman could exalt even after the most pyrrhic victories. Experienced NCOs could too. But an officer saw battles differently; they felt different. Even in victory, a good officer saw mistakes, close calls, and every action he could have taken differently. Such was the case for a soldier’s soldier like Hyram. It came with being good in mind and soul; as good as he was, he was not exempt from the burdens and tribulations of command.

Marsh sat his mug down and pointed out at the field.   
“Sir, out there ya see many hundreds of enemy dead. In many places, some close, some far, there are Cadians alive because o’ that. That’s thanks to you.”

“It’s thanks to these stalwart men and the Emperor,” Hyram replied quickly, then smiled at the ground. “And I had a good teacher.”

“A very handsome one at that,” Marsh said, elbowing his friend. “But I didn’t teach ya that. I’d follow ya anywhere, Sean Hyram.”

Hyram smiled at him, reached over, and jostled the platoon sergeant by the shoulder. At first, he was gentle but became rougher. Eventually, the pair started to laugh and they shoved each other a little, pushed at the other’s face, and ruffled the other’s hair. “Victory is ours!” Marsh said through clenched teeth as he smiled. 

“Are you two quite finished?”

Both looked up at Junior Commissar Carstensen. Her uniform was terribly dirty from the night’s fighting and her orange locks swept back and forth across her face. Despite her taciturn tone, she wore a very delighted smile on her face. Slowly, she held up a piece of parchment. “You’ll want to have a look at this.”


	13. Chapter 13

As the morning went on, Bloody Platoon treated itself to a larger breakfast than usual, or at least what could constitute a larger breakfast. Up until that point, they were subsisting mostly on dry or cold rations with the occasional hot, half-meal when they first encamped for the day. It was to minimize their profile of course; leaving sealed ration packages would create a lovely trail for the enemy to pick up on. Too many campfires would also leave a trail if the heretics were smart enough to disturb the ground the Cadians preferred to bunk down on. Food intake was carefully monitored as they needed to sustain themselves as long as possible. After all, they carried everything and their wargear loads needed to be evenly distributed. Too much weight would wear a man down over the course of their marches. It was a difficult tactical choice, as the amount of walking under such heavy loads caused the troopers to lose weight quickly. But finally, with a quarter of the platoon on watch and with the enemy presence in the immediate area subdued, they could sit down, rest, and eat a full meal. Or at least, something close to a full meal. 

Others were too excited and restless to sit down and eat, however. While Marsh Silas smoked his pipe for the first time in weeks, many of the men picked through what the heretics dropped on the field. While none dared to touch their flesh or search their pockets beyond parchments with maps and scribbles, they were fascinated with the autoguns they carried. Whether these were stripped from the bodies of the Interior Guard, acquired from an Imperial storehouse, or piecemealed together from various models and pieces, these were intriguing trinkets. These were not kept for fear of taint on the part of cultists and heretics, so most were acquired, briefly studied, and then discarded. Often, they were rendered unusable by various means as the Shock Troopers did not want the enemy to return and use them again. 

All were familiar with ballistic firearms. Although they all thought most models were woefully outdated, they qualified with many configurations during their tenures as Whiteshields. Because the Kantrael MG Defender Pattern Service Laspitol was only issued to NCOs and officers, enlisted Shock Troopers were keen to scrounge for secondary weapons. Of course, after a large battle, it was not uncommon for many men who previously lacked a sidearm to stray among the dead and returned with laspistols and leather holsters. Some officers frowned on it but most accepted it as a grim reality of the wars they waged. Autopistols were easier to come by in Departmento Munitorum storehouses or supply dumps as they were considered surplus. Cheap, easy to make, bearing multiple rails for attachments, and usually with integrated ammunition, such firearms made excellent secondary weapons. Some of the troops even preferred them; a Kantrael MG Defender enjoyed excellent stopping power but it was a semi-automatic weapon and lacked the multiple firing mods the M36 lasgun did. In close quarters, when a pistol was very useful, a slow rate of fire sometimes put a Guardsman at a disadvantage. On the other hand, an autopistol was not as powerful but they had large magazines and a high rate of fire. If a soldier quickly transitioned to his sidearm he could swiftly fill his opponent with lead slugs. 

The troops of Bloody Platoon picking up the weapons littered on the ground compared them to their own. Their autopistols were sleek, customized, and well-kept. Most bore olive drab finishes and a silver emblem of the Aquila on the grip. But the various autoguns they found scattered about were made from recycled scrap metal. Much of the bolting and plating on the sides were weak, warped, and loose. Some even broke apart when a Shock Trooper picked it up. Barrels and buttplates were rusted, magazines didn’t sit correctly in the well, and grips often consisted of a series of metal wiring which was twisted to fit in the palm of a hand. Pieces of pipes were nailed to the top rail of some of the long autoguns, a crude attempt to create optics and scopes. Bayonets consisted of extended pieces of rusted metal or a fighting knife wrapped to the barrel by tape.

“Look at this one here, brother!” Walmsley Minor called from halfway down the southern slope. A few standard feet away from Marsh Silas, Walmsley Major stepped up to the edge. His brother heaved an enemy autogun at him which he caught with ease. He looked it over; it was not a very large weapon but there was something strange about it. Even Marsh, who just so happened to glance at it, found it odd. 

Walmsley Minor trudged up the slope and tapped the center of the weapon, his fine hair matted to his head. “It’s the body of an M36. Can ya believe it? They converted a  _ lasgun  _ to fire slugs. The heretics must have skilled weaponsmith with them.”

It was true. Although the weapons were made of flimsy and cheap material, the actual craftsmanship was decent. Whoever was putting the firearms together was knowledgeable enough with ballistics and lasers. Was it a corrupted Tech-Priest or Enginseer? If so, Marsh Silas wondered what other vile creations the traitor was conjuring. 

“Smile lads for the picter.”

Both of the Walmsley brothers turned to face Valens, the regimental pict-capturer. Somehow, he managed to survive the night as he had at Kasr Fortis. Once again, he proved himself capable of holding his weight in a firefight despite his cushy occupation while in-garrison. Although he carried two of the capturing devices he used a pict-recorder. Walmsley Major shifted his grip, holding the autogun by its stock, and raised it higher. When he did, he opened his mouth for a big, wide smile. His thick blonde hair had become quite curly and it bounced in the morning wind. Beside him, his brother smiled but his gaze remained fixed on the weapon. Marsh remained respectfully out of frame. After Valens recorded them for a moment, he chuckled. “Thanks, that’ll do very good. I’ll take some stills when I play’em back.”

Valens began walking towards the center of the flat hilltop where the majority of the troops were. Marsh Silas picked up his empty tin mug and decided to join him. As he walked, the smoke of his pipe danced in the wind. On their way, they passed some of the outlying members who were sitting in shallow fighting holes, depressions, and on or against rocks. Sitting on one small boulder was Olhouser who was regaling the Whiteshields with a story. Over the course of the journey his hair had grown quickly and was matted against his forehead and the sides of his head. His beard was especially thick off his chin with two parallel white streaks in the center.

“And we came riding in on the Chimeras to rescue the Basilisk convoy. Just as the shootin’ started, ol’ Marsh Silas ran over to one of the big guns, told’em to level the cannon, and take out the closest house. I tell ya, children, there ain’t a sad more beautiful than that of an Earthshaker. One round at point-blank range? Practically blew the house in two! And then we began a pincer attack, half the platoon goin’ up the left side of the village and the other half goin’ up the other side.” As he talked, he motioned with his arms in hands, indicating the lines of the village they assaulted so long ago with Barlocke. Valens stopped to record him for a moment too.

Somewhat removed from the group were Bullard and Astle. The latter was the Voxman of Second Squad. He was sitting on the ground with his back against a boulder. To his left was his Vox-caster and he kept the handset pressed up against his ear. Bullard sat to the Voxman’s right on top of the rock and scanned the landscape through the scope of his long-las. Instead of wearing a soft cover, he wore a long hood with camouflage mesh and netting cover. It came down to the bottom of his neck.Two flaps hung from the front so they could cover his face but he pinned these to clips on the back. 

Valens approached, bent over, and raised his picter. At first, neither noticed but Bullard eventually noticed. Dirty and bearded, he smiled wide and waved his hand. Shifting to the left, Valens focused the picter on Astle who also smiled and waved.

Marsh continued following the shorter Cadian until he reached the main camp. Almost everyone was smoking, drinking recaf, and taking big bites out of Grox jerky strips. A few were still on watch, however, and Valens drifted over to them. Hoole was sitting by himself in a shallow fighting hole which Shock Troopers sometimes scrapes. A man who sat upright in one would still have his upper body exposed but the purpose of such holes was to recline. If a trooper did that, then he was comfortably below the surface. In Hoole’s hole was a small fire and he took off his boots to warm his feet. 

“Hoole!” Valens said quickly. The trooper turned around, instantly smiled, and waved at the picter. Chuckling, the regimental pict-capturer turned around and returned to the main group. They were spread out in the shape of a U nearly the cluster of rocks where the standard still flew. Everyone’s hair was longer or thicker, their beards were filling out, and their faces were so filthy a layer of dust and dirt covered what was left of their facial paint. Some had their sleeves rolled up, others were bundles up in their blankets, while others boasted of being too warm and stripped down to some of their thinner layers.

Just as Marsh was about to sit down, placing his tin mug next an assortment of other mess kits, a hand latched on his arm.

“Valens, why don’t you get a shot of us?” Lieutenant Hyram said in a rather cheerful tone. Before Marsh could protest, he was wheeled around. With his right hand clutching the sling of his M36, slung over his shoulder, he smiled at the picter. Hyram stood on the platoon sergeant’s right side and placed his left arm on his friend’s shoulder. Marsh lowered his pipe, letting the smoke swirl from the bowl. After exchanging a brief glance, the two friends looked at the recorder with cocksure grins and satisfied airs. As he filmed them, Valens began to widen, obviously pleased with the two trooper’s demeanors. 

Marsh was still looking at the picter when he felt another hand on his shoulder. Carstensen flashed a fleeting smile at him before folding her hands behind her back. Assuming a stately posture, she offered the regimental pict-capturer a solemn, dignified expression. As serious as it was, the contrast between her stoic outlook, flowing orange hair, and dirty face made her appear more as a line trooper than a Junior Commissar. Nonetheless, Marsh Silas found her perfectly picturesque. Inspired, he tilted his NCO patrol cover down in a more determined manner and did his best to appear more confident than before. 

Before he knew it, Arnold Yoxall was crouching in front of him. Then there was Drummer Boy, excitedly dropping his Vox-caster in front of him. Honeycutt, the squad leaders, all their sentries, the lone troopers inspecting the field, even the Whiteshields—all gathered around their three commanders to pose for the picter. Valens kept backing up and adjusting his instrument to accommodate every face. Men held up their trophies and weapons, tipped their hats, put their lho-sticks to their lips, clutched their holy icons, and smiled wide. To punctuate the congregation, Babcock squeezed in and held the standard very high. At first, the flag draped limply but a gust of wind caught it so hard it was nearly taught. 

“Have anything you want to say to the picter, Lieutenant?” Valens asked. Everyone encouraged the platoon leader to speak. Hyram cleared his throat.

“This is First Platoon, First Company of the Thirteen-Hundred-Thirty-Third Cadian Shock Troopers!” he stated proudly, then gazed at the troops. “Who are we!?”

“Bloody Platoon!”

“Let our Lord hear your voices on three! One-two-three!”

“For the Emperor!” the entire platoon hollered loudly, their voices carrying across the countryside. 

More cheering would have ensued if not for the distant thunder of approaching engines. Everyone turned to the south and witnessed a pair of rapidly approaching Valkyries. Immediately, Bloody Platoon returned to their positions and duties. Upon Hyram’s order, Marsh took a smoke grenade from his webbing, pulled the pin, and tossed it to a clear area of the flat hilltop. Yellow smoke began billowing into the air. Both aircraft swept over the landing zone, turned, hovered, and slowly descended. Landing gracefully, the VTOLs powerful engines kicked up a cloud of loose snow and dirt. 

Once the ramps lowered, the crew members began shoving larger bundles and crates of supplies off the dropships. First and Second Squads assisted them and soon the supplies were dragged away from the landing zone. Gleefully, Bloody Platoon began cracking the crates and canvas bags upon. Stores of grenades, rations, and autopistol magazines were replenished. Among the supplies were fresh coats, material and tools to repair uniforms, and even new soles and inserts for their boots. 

While the supplies were distributed under the dutiful gaze of the squad leaders, Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen waited near the landing zone. After the supplies were disgorged, a lone figure trundled down the ramp. Dressed in a fresh, splendid field uniform complete with his low-peaked cap was Captain Giles. The intelligence-turned-infantry officer wore an amicable smile complemented by his kind violet eyes. But his face was that of a soldier’s; square, hard, weathered, and scarred. He was every inch the Cadian officer even if some of the other company commanders used to whisper behind his back that compiling reports made him soft. After assuming joint command of Bloody Platoon turned the Raid on Kasr Fortis no one doubted his combat prowess. 

Salutes were exchanged and First Company’s commander shook each of their hands.

“Well done, well done,” he congratulated them. “Let’s have a look at the battlefield, then.”

The trio led their commander to the edge of the hill to survey the previous night’s carnage. While they waited for the Captain to arrive, many of Cadia’s native birds descended on the field of corpses. Many were now picking away at the flesh, their long, gray beaks pecking, tearing, and snapping on strips of bloody flesh. Giles only gazed at the sight for a few minutes before turning back to Bloody Platoon’s leaders. “Lieutenant Hyram, you certainly have a penchant for the high ground. I would say we should dub this worthy ground, ‘Hyram’s Hill,’ but one already bears that title, doesn’t it?”

Humbled, Hyram smiled bashfully and looked away.

“Indeed, sir. But to the business at hand; Junior Commissar, the map if you please.”

Carstensen retrieved the ragged, greasy parchment she discovered earlier and handed it over. Marsh Silas, Hyram, and the Junior Commissar each crowded around their superior officer and gazed at. The map did not detail the movement of raiding parties like all the others. Instead, it showed a series of what appeared as mounds. They were little rises, like hills, with holes drawn in them. Arrayed in a half-circle with the line bowing to the south, they were linked by numerous lines. Many little notes were written next to the lines, detailing length, width, and depth. While these may have appeared as lines to the untrained eye, they were actually indications of tunnel networks to the experienced eyes of veteran Shock Troopers. After all, they used tunnels themselves to quickly traverse the grounds of their bases.

Giles folded the map and turned to face his subordinates. Hyram made a fist and dropped it into the palm of his other hand. “We had our suspicions and this map confirms it: the heretics have been hiding underground all this time. It explains why our air and Sentinel patrols could never find them. I request permission to attack one of these enemy bastions at once, sir.”

“None of these appear as their central command, Lieutenant. If we have the opportunity to strike at their heart, it would be wise to bypass their smaller redoubts. By cutting them off from their command, it will be a matter of mopping up the remnants.”

“Yes, but this map is incomplete, so to speak sir. Look again and you’ll see this pattern in their lines mimics the smaller fortifications and installations that protect a large base or a Kasr. A single ring or multiple rings of defense which can deflect and absorb enemy attacks whilst serving as staging grounds for operations. Sir, I believe if we can seize one, we’ll have a foothold in their perimeter and if we continue pushing north or find further intelligence, we will find their stronghold,” Hyram insisted.

Giles tapped the folded map into the palm of his other hand. His lips were pressed into a tight line as he thought. 

“Are you certain in your wish to persist in this endeavor? I have enough evidence from your reports to spur the entire regiment and support units into an attack on this enemy hive.” 

Hyram exchanged a brief glance with Marsh and Carstensen. The platoon sergeant and Junior Commissar also looked at one another. Then, they gave their immediate superior a resolute nod. Bolstered, the Lieutenant smiled and nodded as well. A smile tugged at Giles’s lips. “Very well. I shall return to Army’s Meadow and see that the entire regiment is mobilized. Colonel Isaev cannot resist us now. You have a copy of the map in your Data-slate? Good. Proceed to your objective, seize it, and then hold that ground until the regiment arrives. If you can, feed us as much information as possible. May the Emperor be with you always.”

After another exchange of salutes, Captain Giles boarded one of the waiting Valkyries. Pausing halfway up the ramp, he turned around and cupped his hand around his mouth. “You saved a great many lives last night! Keep at it, Bloody Platoon!” Then, he disappeared inside and the ramp shut. Both aircraft ascended, turned their noses, and flew southward. 

***

Bloody Platoon spent the rest of the morning and afternoon resting. A few more Guardsmen than usual were left on watch. Although their hilltop provided an excellent defensible position, it was also quite visible. But with the Emperor’s blessing, they were undisturbed throughout the entire day. By the time they packed their rucksacks and shouldered their weapons, the Cadians were energetic and keen to push on. Heading due north under a partly cloudy nighttime sky, they covered ground as quickly as they could. Although they were quite comfortable being out in the Cadian hinterland after so many weeks, Hyram did not want them to grow complacent. As a result, they still maintained a tactical column with skirmishers on their flanks. If any Guardsmen spotted a suspicious sight or heard a strange noise, the column halted until it was safe to move on. Occasionally, Hyram paused to cover himself with a blanket to check his Data-slate, still mindful of the screen’s bright glare. 

Despite their many stops, they made good time. Even men who were wounded were able to keep up. Out of everyone, Yeardley was struggling the most due to his injured leg. Marsh Silas dropped back to the center of the column where the Whiteshields marched and picked him out among them. In the light of the moon, he could see a sheen of sweat shimmering on the young man’s face. Limping along, he huffed and puffed under the weight of his heavy rucksack. On level ground, he managed very well but the moment they traversed a hill or ridge, he was grunting with exertion and pain. A few of his comrades attempted to alleviate his stress by taking some of his wargear. But the young Whiteshield refused their aid. Observing his determination, Marsh Silas felt very proud. 

“You know what helps me on a long march?” he whispered to the young man. “Whenever the going gets tough, I imagine Kasr Polaris on the other side of o’ hill or just around the bend of a road. That always makes the next few steps a bit easier.”

Yeardley looked forward again and his brows knitted with determination despite the daunting hill. 

“Home is on the other side,” he said bravely and began pushing himself harder.

“Aye. Perhaps, when this operation is all said and done, the Emperor will bless us with furlough. If it’s long enough, we ought ta be able to see Polaris for a time. Wouldn’t that be somethin’, lad?”

“I should like nothing more, Staff Sergeant, if only my friends could come as well.”

“You’ve talked about it enough, I suppose I should have to see it sometime,” Graeme said. Against Yeardley’s protests, the smaller Whiteshields took off the wounded man’s rucksack and threw the straps over the front of his shoulders. Holding his M36 by his side, Graeme was a bulk with a rucksack on both his front and back. Despite the heavy weight and his small stature, he seemed quite pleased with himself. Marsh Silas was, too.

Contented that the Whiteshields were in good order, Marsh walked out to the left flank of the column. Snell, a trooper in Third Squad, was acting as one of the skirmishers. An experienced man who was a keen shot and a decent scout, he was a natural pick for the job. One might not have thought so because of his barrel chest and heavy footsteps. But he could move quickly and quietly despite his stature. Tapping him on the shoulder, Marsh motioned for him to rejoin the column. Snell nodded and allowed the platoon sergeant to take his place.

Holding his M36 by the grip in his right hand, he allowed the weapon to rest by its sling somewhat. On long marches, he liked to keep at least one hand free so it wouldn’t tire from holding a weapon for so long. Marsh breathed in deeply, taking in the crisp night air. Removed from the coast, the air here was far clearer. 

_ Such words remind me of our resolve to visit Kasr Sonnen once more after the raid. Are you drawing on such words to inspire the young man because you’ve never thought of home on a march or climbing hill, Silvanus _ . Marsh rolled his eyes as Barlocke’s curious voice filled his ears. 

“I have,” he whispered in the lowest tone. He was far enough away from the column and the other skirmishers so that he would not be heard. Barlocke hummed which caused a small vibration within Marsh’s head. It reverberated and bounced off the sides of his skull.  _ I reside in your mind now, I see all, or at least very much. Not  _ once _ have I seen any talk of Polaris in regards to a bad march in recent times. Please, do not argue against someone who lives among your thoughts.  _ “I was just tryin’ to inspire the lad. It worked, didn’t it? It was no lie to fret over.”

Barlocke made a clicking sound, like one did with their tongue. How the fragment did so Marsh could not figure out. Either way, the click snapped through his mind and was loud enough to make him jolt a little. “Enough o’ that, I don’t need to be hearin’ no noise from yer mouth like that.”  _ Oh, am I bothering you? One thousand pardons please for I am quite bored in here! I have sifted through memories upon memories again and again. When are we going to get to this enemy hive?  _

Marsh sighed and shook his head. “Ain’t ya found something ya ain’t seen yet? If I’ve forgotten somethin’ surely you can find it?”  _ Oh, how stimulating. Yes, you forgot your extra set of boot laces back at Army’s Meadow.  _ “I did!? And yer only tellin’ me now?” 

His old friend’s fragment did not respond. Marsh waited a few minutes to see if he would say something more. Wen he didn’t, he took a brief look around to make sure no one was listening still. “Anythin’ else ya can find in there? How far back can you look?” _If I was one with my living form once more, I could look all the way back to the beginning of your life when you were but a babe. Alas, I am but the fragment, a single shard of a soul, a fracture from a mind, woven together with your own. My power is not what it once was; I can delve deep but I’ve not enough strength to unlock such deep and dormant memories._ _Ah, but I’ll stop for now. Hyram is coming_.

Looking up, Marsh saw a figure coming towards him from the head of the still marching column. Just as Barlocke said, it was Lieutenant Hyram. The commanding officer came up and put a hand on the platoon sergeant’s shoulder. With his other hand, he pointed to the north. 

“On the other side of this ridge we’ll be coming across about one hundred meters of open ground leading to the hive. Let’s reform into a line and hold position on the crest of the ridge.”

At once, Marsh Silas filtered through the column and assisted the platoon leader. Bloody Platoon eased out of formation and filed into a horizontal line. Hyram moved ahead and with a single wave, ushered them to the top. As they ascended the ridge, they stooped to a half-crouch, then went prone as they reached the top. Across an empty barren field lay their objective: it was like an insect mound, rising gradually out of the land and coming to the top which was nearly shaped like a cone. But it was capped by layers of earth and was marked by many lone rocks. Although it stood alone, it looked like many of the low hills and grades which Bloody Platoon passed by or over during their foray into the hinterland. 

Laying between Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen, Marsh observed the enemy hive through his magnoculars. He could not see any entrances on the southern side. No guards patrolled the grounds either. As soon as Hyram made the same observation he lowered his own set and shook his head. “I don’t like it. Should they not be out if they use night as a cover for their movement? Surely, they would take this opportunity to come above ground.”

“There is no understanding of the heretic, the cultist, or the traitor,” Carstensen whispered back. “If they are anything like the vermin we fought at Kasr Fortis or at the Cove, then they must crave their inner recesses.” She examined the hive through Marsh’s magnoculars and was careful not to choke him with the cord. After a brief examination, she handed them back. “It stands to reason that having wiped out so many of their raiding parties, we may have thinned their ranks.”

“Then there is no better time to strike!” Marsh hissed.

“Let us not trade confidence for foolishness,” Hyram warned. “But we can remain no longer. The platoon will advance rapidly and encircle the mound. We’ll sweep for an entrance.”

The word was passed to the squad leaders and spread to the troops. Upon Hyram’s word, the entire platoon rose and ran down the opposite slope of the ridge. Charging across open ground, under moonlight and without screaming was a very eerie experience. It was only at this moment during the entire movement Marsh Silas felt afraid. As he bounded along, listening to the thunderous footsteps of his many comrades, he could not find a reason why he was scared. Was it his soldier’s instincts hesitating at the thought of moving across open ground? Or was it because the enemy hive was far bigger than it appeared from the opposite ridge? The close he approached, the taller it seemed. Looming over him, it seemed like a dark, curved wall ready to collapse upon him. 

Marsh Silas was glad when they finally reached the base of the mound. Around him, the other Guardsmen looped around the flanks and soon the entire mound was encircled. A sudden stillness took hold of Bloody Platoon as they waited for the enemy to make contact. Everyone trained their weapons on the slopes of the hill but no enemies showed themselves. Minutes ticked by without any sound or movement. 

Knowing they were losing precious time, Hyram stood up. “Begin searching. Be cautious and go nowhere alone.”

Like insects returning to their subterranean home, they began combing the slope. Marsh found himself prodding loose stones with his bayonet or digging slightly around stones. He removed scrub bushes and roots, trying to find an entrance. He cleared away the top layers in depressions and pits in the hopes of finding a trapdoor. Nothing manifested, not even at the top. Everyone struggled to find an entrance, eager to be the first in their silent contest. As hard as Marsh searched, it was Logue and Foley who found the way in.

Hyram issued a rally order on the micro-bead. Marsh went to the northern side of the slope. Halfway down, where the land leveled into an inconspicuous shelf guarded by stones and scraggly country shrubs, the two Guardsmen stood in front of an open entrance. Some of the Whiteshields were nearby and attempted to raise their lamp-packs to look down the tunnel, but the veterans quickly stopped them. 

The Platoon Command Squad gathered around. Hyram rubbed his chin as he gazed down the dark tunnel. “We don’t know if they’re aware of our presence. If we send the whole platoon in, it may very well be a slaughter.”

“So we’ll send in some scouts,” Marsh said. “Typical tunnel clearin’ doctrine. A few men to steal in, stickin’ to the shadows, and clear it with dagger and pistol. They’ll give us a foothold.”

Hyram grimaced. He did not want to pick the men for the duty. Marsh did not see that as a weakness. It was a burden a humanitarian man like Hyram did not like to make. For him, victory was not just measured by the magnitude of the enemy’s defeat. Mission success was also determined by how many men he brought home alive. To delve into a tunnel was one of the most dangerous duties for a Guardsman on Cadia. But it had to be done.

Before the Lieutenant or platoon sergeant could make their decision, Foley stepped forward.

“Seein’ as I’m the one who found the tunnel, I’ll go.”

“As will I,” Logue said, jerking his thumb towards the entrance. “We’ve got the right weapons for it.”

“You know there’s a good chance you may not come back out,” Hyram warned them. Logue and Foley exchanged a glance, then smiled at the Lieutenant. 

“Got it, sir,” they said in unison. All Hyram could do was nod. Both men doffed their rucksacks and excess wargear. Each checked their weapons; Foley was equipped with an autopistol and heavy double-barreled shotgun while Logue carried his custom autopistol. Equipped with an extended buttstock, a holographic sight, a forward grip, and lengthened barrel, it was an excellent weapon for close quarters battle. Both men repositioned their scabbards on their webbing so their trench knives were easier to reach. 

Both men knelt, made the sign of the Aquila, and began to pray. Marsh stood adjacent to them and watched proudly. Carstensen stood in front of the two men and murmured another prayer. Once they were finished, they shook the hands of their leaders and embraced a number of their friends in the platoon. Finally, Logue waved his hand and the duo crept into the tunnel. Instantly, they disappeared in the darkness. 

Marsh Silas rounded up the Whiteshields to patrol the area while Hyram arrayed Bloody Platoon in a perimeter around the enemy hive. Everyone dug in as best they could with sentries monitoring both the area around the mound and sweeping the hill for more entrances. Graeme’s little burst of fervor buoyed the platoon sergeant’s spirits and he felt more at ease as he traversed the enemy ground. Multiple times, he hushed the young ones as they excitedly discussed their comrade’s bravery. Some even postulated that he would be promoted to corporal next, all coveting the rank now that Webley had achieved it. It was banter Marsh had not heard in many years and such youthful willfulness gladdened his heart forward.

Descending the eastern slope, he found himself on another shelf. There was nothing but a large rock embedded into the side of the hill. For a few moments, he studied it to see if it was a disguise. Digging into the ground around it with his bayonet point, he found the earth naturally packed and undisturbed. Having seen plenty like it, he decided not to perform a thorough search. While he waited for the Whiteshields to catch up, he turned around and leaned against the rock. With the mission tempo dying down and his adrenaline settling, he was becoming more aware of how footsore he was. Putting his weight against the rock, he sighed as he felt the pressure come off his soles.

There was a crumbling noise. Marsh’s eyes bulged as the rock gave way and earth fell around him. Before he could even reach out, he was on his back and sputtering as dirt landed in his eyes and mouth. Covering his face, he expected something to collapse on him. When nothing fell, he lowered his arms and looked around. The rock, which was not very thick, had fallen back into a tunnel. Rolling onto his hands and knees, Marsh Silas raised his M36 as a precaution. Instead, the tunnel was empty and quiet. 

“Staff Sergeant,” he heard Clivvy whispered. He looked up; on the slope above the shelf, the Whiteshields were staring down at him. “What happened?”

“I found another tunnel,” Marsh replied and heard Barlocke scoff loudly. ‘ _ Found,’ is a very strong word. ‘Fell into by mistake,’ is a much better way of— _ “Shut up,” the platoon sergeant hissed as his pupils joined him. Rowley put out a call to Hyram who swiftly arrived and studied the entrance.

“We can use this tunnel to send in more troopers to support Foley and Logue,” Hyram said. “If any defenders lie within, they’ll be forced to respond in multiple directions. This time, it will be you and I, Staff Sergeant.”

Marsh shook his head and thumped his friend on his chestplate.

“No, sir. This platoon can’t lose ya, but me on the other hand, you’ve got plenty o’ good men to pick from for a new sergeant. I’ll go in alone.”

“No man goes anywhere alone.”

“Then give me one o’ the Whiteshields.”

Marsh pointed at his pupils who all eagerly stepped forward. Hyram looked at them apprehensively. Although he did not like putting his good friend in such a position, Marsh was adamant he go in instead of him. It was not that he doubted Hyram’s capabilities as a warrior; the thought of losing him in that darkness frightened him more than the thought of losing his own life. As far as he was concerned, it was his duty to go in place of the platoon leader. As much as he did for the men, Hyram was far more important. Silently, he prayed the Lieutenant would not put his foot down and use his superior rank to enter anyways.

“One of them? Take a veteran for the Emperor’s sake.”

“They need the experience. What one learns, they can teach to the others. After all, ain’t this a long range trainin’ exercise?” Marsh grinned. Hyram’s lips twitched as he suppressed a smile. Casting one more look to the young ones, he tapped the Staff Sergeant on his chestplate. 

“Are you sure they’re ready?”

Since the first ambush, all the Whiteshields performed well. For the most part, their duties had been light and not critical to success. But they fought well enough and obeyed almost all their orders. While they were forced to return to their positions a few times they had not hesitated like they did during the first ambush. That was enough for Marsh Silas. 

“I wouldn’t strike the offer if I didn’t think so. Yeardley, it’s you and me. We’ll give these heretics Polaris metal for a change.”

The Whiteshield limped forward, grinning. But his friend Graeme stepped out too.

“Take me instead, Staff Sergeant. Yeardley is still walking off his wound. It’ll hinder him if he’s in a bad scrap. I’m in good shape and I can fight.”

Graeme was the shortest and the weakest of the lot. But he marched up to Lieutenant Hyram with a determination he had not borne before. “Sir, I failed you and Staff Sergeant Cross during our first ambush. I not only shamed myself, but the entire unit and the Emperor. Let me redeem myself in His eyes and yours. Let me show you I am a Cadian.”

The boy was trembling with excitement and fear. Although Marsh only wore a small smile, he was bursting with pride. To see the smallest Whiteshield acting so brave and willing to take the place of his friend made him say thankful to the Emperor for making him a Cadian. Even Hyram seemed moved, his violet eyes twinkling in the moonlight. 

“If the Staff Sergeant agrees then it will be so.”

“Make ready, boy. We be tunnel crawlers tonight.”

Graeme eagerly dropped his wargear and repositioned his weaponry on his webbing. Marsh left his M36 and 9-70, opting instead to take the Ripper Pistol, shotgun, and trench knife. Taking a few autopistol magazines from his comrades, Graeme detached the bayonet from his M36 lug and wielded it as a combat knife. Together, both men knelt and said their prayers together. When they stood, they embraced. Marsh also shared a brotherly embrace with Hyram. When he turned around, Carstensen gazed at him. 

Everything he wanted to do at that moment was unacceptable. Too many eyes were on them. So he smiled and began to turn, but something halted him. It was like an unseen wall coming up before him. An invisible hand guided him back. Throwing out his arm, he clutched her wrist and squeezed tightly. She did the same, her thumb running over the faded scars her nails left in the skin of his wrist those months ago. His violet eyes met her blue-green gaze; it was an intense connection, conveying that bottled up emotion which they wanted to share so badly, knowing this might be the last moment.

He forced himself to let go. Nodding at Graeme, Marsh Silas pressed onward into the black tunnel. 


End file.
